Midnight in Everwood(19)
Miss Worthers patted the faded roses on her deep fuchsia hat. ‘I must admit, the temperatures are rather frigid for my liking. Perhaps a spot of tea shall set me to rights.’
‘Be sure to take your time,’ Marietta said. ‘I may indulge in a short wander to peruse what other wares might sweeten up the Christmas stockings.’ She fled into the glittering chaos before Miss Worthers could brook an objection. After pausing behind a stall, Marietta glanced back to see her companion vanish into the Griffin and Spalding foyer with the rest of the smart winter-coated and hatted bustle. Her pinch of guilt was washed away by a wave of empowerment; today, her future rested in her own hands. She then broke into a clipped pace in the opposite direction.
Cutting up Market Street and crossing onto Upper Parliament Street, she let a precious few seconds drizzle by as she gazed at the proud edifice shining before her. The Theatre Royal. The portico stared back at her in all its elegance, its six Corinthian columns holding up the weight of culture in the city. Marietta squared her shoulders and marched in. She was escorted to the back of the theatre by a prim woman who glanced at the rich cloth her coat was cut from in confusion. Ignoring her, Marietta claimed an empty dressing room for herself and changed out of her mauve velvet dress. Between its thickness and the winter coat she had worn, she had absconded a corset without notice. A fact she was grateful for, as no one was there to aid her in its removal. The chatter and gossip of other auditioning dancers filtered through the thin walls and Marietta felt the first nip of nerves.
Before the clocks could strike four, she was waiting in the wings, dipping her pointe shoes in rosin to ensure a better purchase on the stage. The woman who preluded her danced like a dream. Her limbs stroked the air as she coaxed an ethereal gracefulness from her final pirouettes, a bird taking flight. The judges passed no remark other than a desultory, ‘Thank you, we shall inform you of our decision in due time,’ and the woman nodded, walking across the stage and past Marietta, her neck and arms glistening with sweat, snapping her out of the illusion.
‘Miss Marietta Stelle.’
She walked onto the stage. Four tiers of empty seats stared back at her, heavy with expectation. She was framed by a tall column at each side, curtains draped above, electric chandeliers bright and hot on her face. Three judges were to witness her dancing. The tight, haughty expressions they wore did nothing to dispel Marietta’s nerves. Two women, imperious enough to rival even Madame Belinskaya, and a man whose attire suggested he had just stepped from Bond Street. He raised a monocle to one eye and peered at her through it. ‘A segment from the Rose Adagio, performed as a solo variation. My, that is an ambitious piece. I do hope your decision to adapt Marius Petipa’s choreography into a solo piece was a worthy one.’ He snapped his fingers at the partial orchestra, who began to play.
Marietta’s nerves swelled into a thing with teeth and claws. It left her stricken with a sudden paralysis, depositing her half a beat behind the music pouring into the theatre. Yet this was it. The single chance she had been waiting and hoping and fighting for. The world slipped away until there was nothing but Marietta and the stage she stood on. And so she danced, giving life to Aurora, lending the princess a voice.
No longer was the young princess promenaded by each of her four suitors, one prince giving way to the next in a ceaseless tide. No, Marietta forged her story anew as she pirouetted, unfurling her own free will onto the stage in a string of unsupported arabesques and attitudes. Soaring further into the dance, the music softened into a delicate touch that she fluttered along to, pursued by the strong, rising brass at the climax, the pinnacle towards which Marietta had been striving; that high, solitary arabesque en pointe. The moment crept closer and closer until it arrived in a grand swoop of music that set her soul alight with yearning. Elevating her leg high behind her, her supporting leg lifting her skyward, arms reaching out, Marietta held the position, her face tilted up towards the judges and an imaginary audience.
And there, sat at the very back in the previously empty seats cloistered in the shadows, was Drosselmeier. Yet there was no hiding his silver hair, gleaming like a beacon. Even from this distance, Marietta could see his gaze was locked on her. How had he known? She lost her concentration. For a precious second, Marietta wobbled. Fighting to hold her balance, she regained the precarious position. Then, as the music reached its conclusion, she pirouetted, spinning out of control as if her legs had run away with themselves. Her balance slipped and she fell out of the pirouette, attempting to disguise it with an impromptu glissade; gliding across the stage as the music ended. She tore her glance away from Drosselmeier, onto the judges. They looked glazed over and she was unsure if they’d noticed or were too fatigued with the long day of auditions to pay close attention. Either way, Drosselmeier’s distraction had wrenched away the wish she had danced her heart out for; that through ballet she might take flight. A gossamer-winged creature on a silver wind, light and free.
She let out a soft gasp. The tiers of seats were empty once more. Perhaps she had conjured his presence, her own imagination seeping poison into her head. No. There within the very recesses of the theatre, a door swung closed. Her throat thickened with fear. For what purpose had he decided to witness her audition, and worse, how had he come to know of the event? Even though Frederick had been quick to dismiss it, she had suspected that there was something peculiar about the man after their walk in the gardens; yet this seemed more ominous still.