Page 3 of The Duke's Dream
“I’m meeting someone there,” Louise said. “A writer. His newspaper has an impressive readership, and his pen is sharper than Voltaire’s. He is doing a venomous article on the war budget.”
“Another radical acquaintance?” Helene asked.
She didn’t care for Louise’s mysterious afternoon outings and clandestine meetings with Whigs and liberals.
Louise fished a speck from her military-cut coat. “Elias Farley has no connections with Napoleon. Sadly, he—”
“Please don’t get involved with trouble,” Helene said.
Though Helene shared several of Louise’s political inclinations, freedom among them, they didn’t need the Foreign Office’s attention. With England waging war against Napoleon, the French living here required more balancing skills than a ballerina en pointe. Helene shuddered to think of Louise in the hands of those uncouth runners. Once had been enough.
Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three…
The third-floor opera singer reached her aria, and the notes vibrated in Helene’s bones. How could a ballerina hope to focus here? The thin walls of her garret offered no protection against the symphony of her neighbors’ lives—the cry of the strings, the rasp of paintbrushes, the whispered hum of a poem’s birth. Most of the residents had artistic ambitions. Thankfully, dreams of fame weighed less than feathers. If they carried the heft of lead balls, their old Soho building would have crumbled to dust long ago.
Helene closed her eyes and exhaled. “Can you two please go? I need to rehearse my pointe. I promise once I’m a principal, we’ll celebrate in the Pantheon.”
“Fine,” Louise said. “Suit yourself.”
Perfect. Now Helene could finish her count. Thank Apollo for that. Her standing leg was burning.
Eighty-one, eighty-two…
Celeste and Louise drifted toward the door. Helene followed them with her gaze.
Eighty-three…
As Louise linked her arm through Celeste’s, their vibrant skirts flapped like wings. Helene’s heart shrank into a fist. They were children again, arriving in London under heavy February hail, proud owners of the coats on their backs and a budding friendship—The Swans from Paris.
“Wait!”
They turned.
Pulse racing, Helene let go of her pose and rushed to her friends, wrapping them in a tight embrace. The fifth secret of this ballerina? Dancing with her corps de ballet topped dancing alone. They clung to one another—three girls cast away by the revolution, yet bound together in London, this cold, unyielding, marvelous island.
“Both of you, please be careful.” Smiling, Helene caressed Celeste’s face. “Try to dance a waltz, just this once? Perhaps Prince Charming forgot his shining armor and won’t crumple your feet.”
Helene turned to Louise. “Promise to avoid the police?”
Celeste’s smile was wobbly. Louise nodded gravely.
As the door closed, a suffocating silence settled in their wake. A less committed dancer might have followed them. But a less committed dancer wouldn’t become a principal of Covent Garden Theater, would she?
Helene returned to the mirror, and after showing her tongue to her judgmental reflection, she lifted her leg in arabesque again.
One, two, three…
"Canyousharethenature of the dreams, Your Grace?" Dr. Flemming asked, rummaging through his medical case, his monocle dangling precariously from his sunken brow.
William closed his eyes, and the visions invaded his consciousness. Laughter—distant, then dancing closer. Rustling leaves. Perpetual spring. So real. The forest, the glade, the brook. Grass underneath bare feet. A melody—flute notes, then a watery harp. The pounding of his heart as the moment drew near. And her. The Sprite. Ready to strip his will. By his side, whispering secrets and then out of reach. A being made of curves, impishness, and hummingbird wings.
"Your Grace?" the doctor asked. "Any symbols?"
William gripped the arms of the chair. How deeply this consumed him—awake, yet his skin tingled as if he were in the dream's grip, experiencing her phantom touch. Why did a dream feel more real than these paneled walls? "I'm certain you have a treatment that does not require speculation."
"There are remedies for lack of sleep, but this could be a symptom. Natural philosophers say dreams are bubbles from our deepest desires—"
"I'm glad I didn't summon a natural philosopher." William allowed impatience to color his voice.
