be watching you out front, and I will see all of you tomorrow morning at ten, in the rehearsal hall.â
There were several groans. But when Madameâs brows shot up, and her mouth became a hard, tight line, blood red, the groans subsided immediately. Resigned glances were exchanged. A great spirit of camaraderie prevailed among Madame Olgaâs girls. All of us, victims of her stern tyranny, presented a united front; we were exclusive martyrs who paid dearly for the abuse she handed out.
âThe music is beginning. Please, young ladies! You are not a gaggle of silly geese thinking of nothing but men and hair ribbons. You are artists! You are roses, beautiful roses, pink and white and red!â
We hurried across the stage, ballet slippers pattering with a soft, muffled sound. Sinking to the floor, we spread our skirts out and folded ourselves up, seven pink roses stage right, seven white roses stage center, six red stage left. The lights dimmed and the music of Chopin filled the auditorium, lovely, melodic, subdued. There was a rusty, metallic creak as the heavy curtain lifted and parted. We were suddenly bathed in a hazy silver-blue light. The crystal spangles scattered over our skirts sparkled like dew in the moonlight.
He was out there again tonight, the third night in a row. I had snubbed him properly the first night he approached me in front of the theater. He had merely grinned. Overhead, now, the haze of blue vanished and the silver grew brighter, melting into gold. I lifted one arm, slowly, moving it with the music. Last night he had been waiting for me again, and I had told him in no uncertain terms that I wasnât interested in his proposition, that I knew a scoundrel when I saw one and would summon a Bobby if he didnât leave me alone.
I lifted my other arm, both arms caressing the sunlight, gold melting into white, my head still bowed. He would be waiting for me tonight as well, no doubt, top hat tilted on his head, satin-lined opera cape falling from his shoulders. He would be leaning against the wall just outside the foyer, humming to himself, tapping his cane on the pavement as he watched the traffic pass up and down the street in front of the theater. His impudent blue eyes would light up as I stepped outside. That cocky grin would form on his lips. I would walk right past him, ignoring him completely.
I raised my head, slowly, slowly, shoulders down, neck a long, graceful line, and I swayed from side to side, lifting layers of red tulle, the stage a garden of roses bathed in morning sunlight, pure white light, dew sparkling. He was very good-looking. Not handsome, no. The mouth was too large, the cheekbones too broad, the nose slightly crooked as though it had been broken and reset improperly. He had the face of a wicked choir boy. He was thirty or so, I judged, tall and lean and very attractive and much too charming. Pink roses stood, swayed, and danced across the stage as the Chopin melody swelled.
I wasnât at all interested in Mr. Anthony Duke. Ballet girls were all the rage this year, and every roué in London felt he must possess one. Madame Olgaâs girls were not yet professionals, but they were highly prized, possibly because she kept such a close watch over us, sternly forbidding us to go out with any of the men who attended the performances. During the past year at least a dozen men had made advances to me, but I had snubbed them all. Sarah and Theresa found this amusing. The white roses were dancing now, moving around in circles with the pink, celebrating the bright white sunlight.
He was just another man-about-town, eager to have his ballet girl to squire around and show off to his friends. I didnât believe for a minute that he was connected with the theater. An entrepreneur, he called himself, formerly with Fleet Street. Knew everyone worth knowing, he claimed; wanted to make me a star. A child of twelve would hardly fall for that old chestnut. He had the
There were several groans. But when Madameâs brows shot up, and her mouth became a hard, tight line, blood red, the groans subsided immediately. Resigned glances were exchanged. A great spirit of camaraderie prevailed among Madame Olgaâs girls. All of us, victims of her stern tyranny, presented a united front; we were exclusive martyrs who paid dearly for the abuse she handed out.
âThe music is beginning. Please, young ladies! You are not a gaggle of silly geese thinking of nothing but men and hair ribbons. You are artists! You are roses, beautiful roses, pink and white and red!â
We hurried across the stage, ballet slippers pattering with a soft, muffled sound. Sinking to the floor, we spread our skirts out and folded ourselves up, seven pink roses stage right, seven white roses stage center, six red stage left. The lights dimmed and the music of Chopin filled the auditorium, lovely, melodic, subdued. There was a rusty, metallic creak as the heavy curtain lifted and parted. We were suddenly bathed in a hazy silver-blue light. The crystal spangles scattered over our skirts sparkled like dew in the moonlight.
He was out there again tonight, the third night in a row. I had snubbed him properly the first night he approached me in front of the theater. He had merely grinned. Overhead, now, the haze of blue vanished and the silver grew brighter, melting into gold. I lifted one arm, slowly, moving it with the music. Last night he had been waiting for me again, and I had told him in no uncertain terms that I wasnât interested in his proposition, that I knew a scoundrel when I saw one and would summon a Bobby if he didnât leave me alone.
I lifted my other arm, both arms caressing the sunlight, gold melting into white, my head still bowed. He would be waiting for me tonight as well, no doubt, top hat tilted on his head, satin-lined opera cape falling from his shoulders. He would be leaning against the wall just outside the foyer, humming to himself, tapping his cane on the pavement as he watched the traffic pass up and down the street in front of the theater. His impudent blue eyes would light up as I stepped outside. That cocky grin would form on his lips. I would walk right past him, ignoring him completely.
I raised my head, slowly, slowly, shoulders down, neck a long, graceful line, and I swayed from side to side, lifting layers of red tulle, the stage a garden of roses bathed in morning sunlight, pure white light, dew sparkling. He was very good-looking. Not handsome, no. The mouth was too large, the cheekbones too broad, the nose slightly crooked as though it had been broken and reset improperly. He had the face of a wicked choir boy. He was thirty or so, I judged, tall and lean and very attractive and much too charming. Pink roses stood, swayed, and danced across the stage as the Chopin melody swelled.
I wasnât at all interested in Mr. Anthony Duke. Ballet girls were all the rage this year, and every roué in London felt he must possess one. Madame Olgaâs girls were not yet professionals, but they were highly prized, possibly because she kept such a close watch over us, sternly forbidding us to go out with any of the men who attended the performances. During the past year at least a dozen men had made advances to me, but I had snubbed them all. Sarah and Theresa found this amusing. The white roses were dancing now, moving around in circles with the pink, celebrating the bright white sunlight.
He was just another man-about-town, eager to have his ballet girl to squire around and show off to his friends. I didnât believe for a minute that he was connected with the theater. An entrepreneur, he called himself, formerly with Fleet Street. Knew everyone worth knowing, he claimed; wanted to make me a star. A child of twelve would hardly fall for that old chestnut. He had the
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