Midnight in Everwood(17)

‘I dearly wish we possessed male dancers among our ranks,’ Victoria said, her plaintive sigh as affected as many of the mannerisms of the upper classes. ‘I long to perform the coda as Princess Florine without having to wrangle all these pas de deux as solo pieces. Imagine if we had a troupe of tramagnini to lift us, how we would soar. Then I should feel as if I were flying across the stage.’

‘This is not the seventies, nor are you a prima at La Scala,’ Harriet said as Victoria walked past. ‘Stay focused, there are men at the Company.’ She laughed. ‘I’m certain you’ll have your wings soon enough.’

Victoria gave her a coquettish smile and assumed her starting position, prepared to flutter into life as a bluebird.

Something deep inside Marietta’s stomach twisted. She had been permitted to attend classes once it had been ascertained that Madame Belinskaya adopted a strict female-only policy. Harriet’s light interjections served as a reminder that her parents would never allow her to set foot on the stage in a man’s arms. Yet how could she strive for greatness, aspiring to be recognised for her talent alongside the likes of Anna Pavlova, if she allowed her skills to perish in the studio. A flash of a thought, of that doll dancing within a jewelled egg, dusty and time-forgotten. She shuddered and turned her attention back to Victoria’s winged footwork, her legs beating hummingbird-heart-fast. A knot of anxiety nestled within Marietta as she watched a myriad of brilliant talent spill across the studio in the progression of the rehearsal. She couldn’t help fretting that, even if she risked it all, she might never rank among the Company after all. Each of her competitors was as ravenous for that spark of hope as she. They were a thousand untold stories and she was not the sole dancer with dagger-sharp aspirations.

Upon the drive home after class, her anxiety bloomed into a potent cloud of dread. As she rolled up the driveway, the automobile lights fell on Carlton, pacing outside. Frederick must have returned before her then. His expression melted into relief as she came to a stop. She exited the Rolls and strode towards him, the cold snap in the air evident from his pink extremities. ‘I’d rather you wouldn’t speak of my little outing to anyone, Carlton,’ she said smoothly.

The relief fell from his face. His bushy eyebrows clenched together. ‘The master expects a full record of my comings and goings, miss.’

‘Perhaps you could omit this one, just this once.’ Marietta dipped a gloved hand into the folds of her dress to retrieve a couple of crowns.

‘Alright, miss,’ the chauffeur said, taking the coins and darting a furtive look round the drive before giving her a curt nod and taking his leave.

Still, Marietta’s anxiety lingered as she stole back into the house and her bedroom. Sally promptly appeared to dress her in a Turkish-blue gown with soft sleeves draping off her shoulders and pearl beading forging a nacreous trim around the neckline. Long pearl necklaces tumbled down her bodice and soft elbow-length gloves in rich cream drew the ensemble together. Sally arranged her hair in a gentle wave over one shoulder, pinning it back with a sapphire comb. ‘You look lovely, miss,’ she told her, handing over dangling silver and pearl earrings, one at a time. ‘Now you’d best be quick, your father wants a word with you before dinner.’

Marietta’s hand stilled. ‘Did he happen to mention in regards to what?’

‘Sorry, miss.’ Sally shook her head, meeting Marietta’s eyes in the mirror. ‘He’s awaiting you in the library.’ She twisted her apron in her fingers. Marietta gave her a tight smile before making her way downstairs. Trailing her gloved fingers down the polished bannister, she kept her poise in place like a shield.

The library carried the scent of port and crisped, old pages. Mahogany bookcases lined the walls like soldiers, leather armchairs in verdant greens were grouped together around a low table on which perched a decanter of vintage red wine, Drosselmeier’s chessboard and a humidor. Glass-fronted cases in the low-lit edges of the room displayed valuable snuff boxes, a historic gavel Theodore had won at auction, rare editions of Dickens’s books and aged maps of their country estate, curling at the edges. Ferns clustered in one corner, a misplaced jungle. The fire was lit, shadows whirligigged on the crimson wallpaper and danced along the Anatolian carpet that a worn lion skin mooched on. When Marietta had been a child, she had ridden the lifeless creature, the carpet transforming into the topography of the African plains in her mind’s eye.

It had been Theodore that had exhorted the values of an excellent education. ‘Aristotle once said that “the energy of the mind is the essence of life”,’ he had told a young, beribboned Marietta. ‘See to it that yours does not perish.’ The words had been accompanied by a copy of Great Expectations, which Marietta had not appreciated the irony of until later.

Marietta stepped over the lion’s jaws, its glass eyes dull, and took the liberty of seating herself opposite her father, who was reading a newspaper.

‘This very evening I was informed by my household staff that my own daughter has become a thief.’

‘I merely borrowed the automobile, a necessity in order to—’

Theodore slammed his newspaper down. Marietta flinched, lowering her eyes. Headlines screamed out at her from the crisp paper he had his valet iron for him so as not to deposit ink upon his digits.

Arrested suffragettes on hunger strike! New line of the London Underground opened today! Workmen’s Compensation Act passed!