Dare to Love (12 page)

She had noticed my slip last night, of course. She watched every performance with eagle eyes, noting even the slightest discrepancy in movement and line. I assumed that she was furious with me, and rightly so, that I would have to work even harder to make up for it. Tonight I would dance better than I had ever danced before, but this morning I was finding it hard to concentrate. Madame's harsh, icy manner upset me. And, no matter how much I tried to put him out of my mind, I kept thinking of Anthony Duke when I should have been thinking of the music.

Though I stumbled twice, Madame did not comment. Ordinarily when one of us made an error she stopped the rehearsal and flew into a rage, giving the offender a severe tongue-lashing. She did just that when Theresa missed a step. Ordering the pianist to stop, she upbraided Theresa with unusual venom and made us start all over again. It was almost one o'clock in the afternoon before we finally finished. Madame swept out of the room without a word, her blue smock flowing, opal pendants swinging. I was exhausted and, in the mirror behind the practice bar, I could see that my cheeks were pale.

We retired to. the changing room like a flock of blackbirds whose wings had been clipped. We towelled ourselves dry, removed our practice clothes, and took our street clothes out of the lockers. There was none of the merry frivolity and chatter that took place in the backstage dressing room. We were beaten down, dispirited, bodies aching from the ordeal Madame had put us through. Everyone had seen me stumble, but no one commented on it, not even Theresa, who had every right to feel resentful. I changed into my yellow cotton dress, eager to get home, to bathe, to rest until it was time to come back for the evening performance.

Sarah caught up with me as I was leaving.

“Your friend was here this morning,” she said.

“My friend?”

“Anthony Duke. I got here early, before any of the others, God knows why. I suppose my clock was fast. Anyway, just as I was passing Madame's office the door opened and he stepped out.”

“He—he'd been in her office?”

Sarah nodded. “Evidently they'd been having some kind of conference. He looked very pleased with himself.”

I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.

“He swaggered on down the hall, humming to himself. He's very attractive, Mary Ellen, and much too charming. It's none of my business, of course, but—well, I'd be wary of him. Anthony Duke looks like a scoundrel to me.”

“I got the same impression,” I said dryly.

“He
is
connected with the theater,” she continued. “William and I stepped into the club last night for a drink after the performance—William's the ‘brother' I mentioned. Duke was at the bar, downing Scotch and holding forth with some out-of-work tenor. He dashed out a few minutes after we arrived, and I asked William about him. He told me quite a lot.”

“He knows Duke?”

We stepped into the foyer and paused beneath the chandelier. Rays of sunlight streamed in through the glass door panels, making bright squares on the red carpet and causing the gold leaf on the walls to glitter. Sarah touched her hair and gave me a wry smile.

“Not socially, but he knows about him. Duke's connected with the Dorrance Opera Company. It's a far cry from Covent Garden, but it's still a professional company, however second-rate. Some of the best singers appear there between engagements at Covent Garden and La Scala.”

“I've heard about the company.”

“The sets are shabby, the costumes laughable, but the orchestra's supposed to be tolerable. Dorrance will hire one good soprano to bring in the paying customers and surround her with has-beens and competent amateurs, and she'll carry the evening. Dorrance isn't the only company that does that, of course. Even if the tenor's asthmatic and the baritone a drunk, opera lovers will endure any kind of production as long as they can hear their favorite hit those high C's.”

“What does Duke do?”

“He handles the promotion. He's chummy with the lads on Fleet Street; used to write for one of the papers himself, I understand. No matter how bad the production, he can always get plenty of coverage—spicy stories about the prima donna, backstage gossip about feuds, and so on. It's sensational and tasteless, but it sells a lot of tickets.”

“I imagine it does.”

“He's also in charge of the entertainment between the acts, William said. It's Duke's job to get some singer or juggler or acrobat to keep the audience occupied during the intermissions. I hate to think what kind of talent he's able to find.”

Sarah shook her head, sighing wearily. “Anyway, Mary Ellen, you don't want to get involved with Mr. Anthony Duke. I'd keep right on snubbing him if I were you.”

“I intend to. I … I wonder what he wanted with Madame.”

“God knows. Whatever it was, it didn't cheer her up. I've never seen her in such a bitchy mood. The way she jumped all over Theresa, I thought she was actually going to draw blood!”

“She was unusually rough,” I agreed.

“Rough isn't the word for it. Well, I'm off to the flat and a hot bath. I'll see you tonight, and try to remember all your cues. We don't want Madame committing mass slaughter.”

The sinking sensation persisted as I started back toward the rooming house. Carriages and lorries rumbled down the street. Hawkers cried their wares. A bell pealed from one of the churches. London was alive and bustling with all its customary noise and color, but the activity and the ever-changing drama of the streets held no fascination for me. Ordinarily, I would have paused to examine a store window, to inspect the wares on a cart, to watch pigeons circling an ornate spire, or watch a group of children at play. Today I walked briskly, a frown creasing my brow, a dreadful fear spreading inside me.

What could Anthony Duke possibly have wanted with Madame Olga? I could think of no logical explanation. Madame was far too grand to have anything to do with the Dorrance Opera Company. She would pale at the thought of one of her dancers appearing there. But Anthony Duke had come to see her about me, I was sure of that. His visit had upset her, and that was the reason she had been so cool toward me. I was Madame's favorite student, everyone accepted that, and yet this morning she had treated me as though I didn't exist. What had he told her that had caused her manner toward me to alter so abruptly?

Anthony Duke was persistent, and he was ruthless, too. His good looks and charm couldn't conceal that. It was evident in the set of his jaw, in the curve of his mouth. He might be able to cause dozens of women to swoon just by cocking his eyebrow and flashing that boyish grin, but I had no doubt that he could be utterly unscrupulous if occasion demanded. Duke was the kind of man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and he wanted me. All that talk about putting me on the stage was merely an attempt to attract me.

I was upset, and angry as well. How dare he invade my life? I had enough to worry about without any new threats. Unless I found some sort of employment, I would be penniless within a few weeks. I hadn't made nearly enough progress with my dancing, despite all my hard work. I needed at least another year before I would be ready for employment as a professional dancer … and this handsome, arrogant stranger with mocking blue eyes and breezy, determined manner had forced his way into my life, into my thoughts, adding yet another worry.

I was still angry as I reached the square where the grim brownstone rooming house I lived in stood amid a row of identical houses. Situated just off Marylebone Road, it was within walking distance of the theater. There were elegant squares nearby where the wealthy dwelled, but here children played noisily in the unkempt gardens beyond the wrought-iron fence, and everything had the mellow patina of age. Though the neighborhood was only semi-respectable, it wasn't a slum. I was fortunate to have found a room here, and I only hoped I would be able to keep it.

Climbing the flat white marble steps stained with neglect, I peered into the dimly lit foyer with its abundance of dusty green plants. Mrs. Fernwood's marmalade cat peered back at me from the top of the refectory table, lounging indolently across the unclaimed mail and ignoring the chipped blue saucer of meat tidbits his mistress had placed nearby. I adored animals, but this particular creature had taken on the hateful, proprietary disposition of its mistress. His eyes seemed to accuse me as I moved toward the steps. I felt like an intruder and, remembering the unpaid rent, silently prayed Mrs. Fernwood wouldn't hear me.

“There you are!” she cried.

Having made it up only four steps, I stopped as Mrs. Fernwood shuffled into the foyer. Stout, stolid, wearing a loose blue-and-gray-flowered wrap that only emphasized her girth, she tottered a bit before catching hold of the refectory table to steady herself. The cat hissed. Mrs. Fernwood chuckled, her dark eyes bright with malice, her plump cheeks flushed. A bright red paint coated her thick lips, and her hair, worn in short sausage ringlets, was a highly improbable shade of brassy gold. Millie claimed that the woman had once been the proprietor of a notorious brothel near the waterfront. It wouldn't have surprised me in the least.

“'Ear you're movin' soon, ducks,” she said.

“Mrs. Fernwood, I know my rent's overdue, but—”

“Oh, don't worry 'bout
that
, child. Your friend paid, paid for th' rest of th' month, too, 'e did, even though you'll be leavin'. Charmin' lad, that 'un. Cheeky as they come. Teased me somethin' awful, slapped me on th' fanny as 'e was leavin'.”

I stood very still.

“When—when was he here?” I inquired.

“Couple-a 'ours ago. 'Andsome devil. You're a lucky lass. A chap like 'im, 'e can take care o' all your needs. Must be a regular demon in the 'ay, all fierce an' greedy. I knew you'd find yourself a man sooner 'r later. All them fine airs never fooled me for a minute.”

Patting her brassy curls, Mrs. Fernwood smiled. It was actually a leer. Scooping up the cat, she began to stroke its back. It hissed warningly, one paw slashing out at the sleeve of her wrap.

“I suppose 'e'll be settin' you up, in a grand flat,” she mused. “I knew it'd 'appen. Well, luck to you, luv. Treat 'im real nice. 'E's a prize, an' you could just as easily be walkin' the streets like your chum Millie. I know all about '
er
. None o' my affair, though, not as long as she pays 'er rent.”

“Why don't you go have another glass of gin, Mrs. Fernwood?” I snapped.

“'Magine I will, ducks. Just thought I'd pop out an' say ta-ta 'fore you leave. I see so many of 'em come an' go. Young, pretty, ambitious, they don't stay long. There's always a man. You've stayed far longer than most, but then you're choosey. Guess it paid off. Got yourself a real prize—”

I left her rambling on and climbed up the four flights to my floor. So he had paid my rent. Thoughtful of him. That was one less thing I had to worry about, at least until the end of the month. Stepping into my room, I shut the door with a slam. I knew what he expected in return, and he wasn't going to get it. The rent was paid. Fine. I wouldn't have to creep up and down the stairs like a burglar, afraid Mrs. Fernwood would come pouncing out with palm extended. But Anthony Duke would never see a penny of the money again, nor would he receive any other kind of compensation. He was quite mistaken if he believed I would feel a sense of obligation to him.

Unable to rest, I straightened my room and went through my wardrobe, wondering how much longer my clothes would last. I still had many fine dresses, but they were beginning to show wear. I had not bought a single new outfit since arriving in London. I had lived frugally, counting each penny, yet the money had still vanished. I wasn't going to worry about that just now. My rent was paid, thanks to Anthony Duke, and as long as I was paid up, I might as well order a hot bath. Mrs. Fernwood charged extra for baths, of course, but luxuriating in a hot tub would do wonders for me.

Stepping out into the hall, I caught sight of Jessie washing the windows at the end of the hall and asked her to prepare a tub. She scurried away, her enormous brown eyes full of concern. Jessie was a dear thing with her patched black stockings and faded gray dress, her pale blonde hair always spilling down from her topknot. Millie and I tipped her as much as we could for her pathetic services, and the child always looked as though she wanted to burst into tears. I found it cruel that a girl barely thirteen should have to polish bannisters and carry out slops and haul in buckets of coal, but Millie claimed Jessie was one of the lucky ones; when she was thirteen Millie was already on the streets.

I soaked in the bath for over an hour and washed my hair as well. It was almost six before I returned to my room. I would have to leave for the theater in an hour or so. Wearing only my petticoat, I sat in front of the dressing table and brushed my hair. Sunlight slanted in through the windows, pale and silvery, making bright patterns on the faded rose carpet and gilding the surfaces of the old mahogany furniture. The shabby room was comfortable enough with its flowered chintz curtains, its overstuffed olive chair and worn rose satin bedcovers. My books, which were all I had brought with me from Cornwall besides my clothes, helped to make the room my own.

I was still brushing my hair when I heard footsteps in the hall and a light knock on the door. “Yes?” I called, and Millie stepped into the room, looking bright and sunny in a yellow muslin dress embroidered with tiny brown and gold flowers. The cut was exceedingly girlish with its puffed sleeves, form-fitting bodice, and full, swirling skirt. Millie's long golden curls, pert pink mouth, and freckled cheeks might have been those of a demure young girl fresh from the country were it not for the deep-blue eyes. They were dark with worldly wisdom, eyes that had seen far too much for a seventeen-year-old. Tough, resilient, outrageously saucy, Millie was fiercely independent and invariably good-natured, determined to make the best of things no matter what the circumstances.