Page 5 of The Duke's Dream
"May I conduct a physical examination, Your Grace?" Seeing William's expression, the doctor hastened to add, "I will be brief."
Dr. Flemming leaned forward, peering at him closely. If the eyes were windows to the soul, William hoped, for the doctor's sake, his were made of stained glass.
"You have your mother's eyes. The shape and color. Most remarkable."
William fisted his hands. "I'm glad your vision is still sharp."
Of all the traits he could have inherited from his mother, why this? Mercurial eyes that betrayed inner tempests. As a ten-year-old boy, knowing his eyes marked him as her son made him wish to gouge them out. After she left, sometimes his father would stare at him, unable to contain the fear and disdain—a constant reminder of her betrayal.
Over the years, William had mastered the art of using his gaze, unsettling adversaries, and discerning his allies. He used it now to stare at the doctor until he dropped the useless comparisons.
The doctor cleared his throat. “I went to Brighton last week to visit your mother, Your Grace. She asked when you were going to see her.”
“How did you find the Dowager Duchess’s health?” William asked, welcoming the change of subject.
"Winters are prejudicial to her lungs," the doctor said.
"Your latest report stated she has lost weight. You should plan to go to Brighton once a month."
His mother took poor care of herself, and only Dr. Flemming had his full confidence.
The doctor ambled towards the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "If my aging memory doesn't fail me, your mother once complained of disquieting dreams in her youth. Has she ever mentioned those to you?"
The room grew colder, the light flickering with a draft. His mother didn't stay long enough to share confidences. "Our discussions didn't venture into such personal matters."
Dr. Flemming placed his hands over the windowsill. "Once, your father confided in me that, at times, the burden of the Dukedom weighed heavily on his shoulders."
William stood, the chair scraping the floor. "I won't waste more of your valuable time. Leave the prescription with my secretary."
Sighing, Dr. Flemming reached for his medical case. "As you wish, Your Grace, but if the dreams have an internal cause, no medicine, not even all the opium in Turkey, will ease their grip."
TodaywasthedayHelene would fly. As the choreographer watched from the corner of Covent Garden’s stage, a surge of hope rose within her—like a gust of wind beneath her wings, ready to lift her from the shadows and carry her to the stars.
The pianist struck the introduction. With a quick plié, she launched into piqué turns, spinning into the light like the first notes had lit a fuse inside her. Music had a scent and a color, and when it poured into her, she moved. Worries dissolved, and passion burst through her limbs.
She rose into relevé in fifth position and, for the first time, balanced en pointe. Murmurs swelled like waves through the company.This—this was what made her special. Not her face, not her voice, not the softness Celeste so easily wielded, but the power of her body obeying her will.
When she danced, the best of her emerged. No complications, no messy feelings. She would never be the most beautiful. She would never be the most charming. But she could be this. Untouchable. Perfect.
Helene leaped into the allegro. The choreographer couldn’t ignore her now. En pointe, she became more than human—an angel in paradise, an ethereal fairy. Here she was—dancing taller than everyone else, lighter, faster, floating, flying—
“Stop!”
Helene startled and stumbled.
Katherina Fontaine, Covent Garden’s ballet mistress, stared at her, her painted eyebrows meeting above her nose. “Mon Dieu. What was that?”
Helene swallowed. Months and months of rehearsing wilted under the teacher’s pinched expression.
“I adopted the Brugnoli’s act into my variation. I thought it would suit the part.” And make her a prima ballerina.
Foolish Helene. By the glint in Katherina’s eyes, she had more chance of losing her soloist position and becoming a flower girl than rising to stardom.
“I won’t tolerate circus tricks in my class," the ballet mistress pointed her finger at Helene. "Classical ballet has been unchanged since Louis XIV. Who are you to challenge centuries of tradition? A parrot? To repeat that Italian company’s ridiculous moves?”
Gasping, Helene crossed her arms in front of her middle. It was not an imitation! She had changed the Brugnoli's act, stripping the coquettish smiles and burlesque. The Italians danced en pointe to shock. Helene danced to fly.
Her gaze trembled from Katherina to her fellow dancers. They became a mass of heads and faces—a wavering monster. Some regarded her with pity. Others hid sneers underneath manicured hands. A sob tickled her throat. How ugly she was, a plucked bird wearing only its chicken skin and shame.
