She placed a smallish rectangular object on the floor (impossible to see what it was without leaning dangerously far over the railing). Then she drew some item-or items-from the pocket of a full peasant-style skirt before bending down to remove her shoes in the same stealthy fashion that had accompanied her entrance. It did not occur to me to wonder why Lord Belfrey had not called down to her, let alone descended the stairway. He and I had become the intruders in the vignette. Setting the shoes under the billiard table, she sat down, picked up what she had taken from her pocket-slippers of some kind-placed them on her feet, and proceeded to lace them above her ankles. Before getting back up, she touched the rectangular object, and music-glorious, if at a subdued sound level, Tchaikovsky-poured into every particle of the rather musty air that was Mucklesfeld even at its best.
I felt the pressure of his lordship’s shoulder, heard the catch of startled amazement in his breath, but neither of us murmured a word. Nor did it occur to me to wonder what Georges would have made of our standing glued together like the ornamental bride and groom on top of a cake. Molly Duggan-for it was she who, incredibly and improbably, raised her arms above her head, fingers touching to form a Gothic arch-started to dance on her points. Those hadn’t been slippers but block-toed, satin ballet shoes. My hands gripped the railing when she teetered. She was going to fall splat on the floor in an ungainly heap of dumpy, frumpy forty-year-old woman. Unbearable to watch. We all have our dreams, ridiculously unrealistic though they may be. But no! She steadied, spread her arms, arched her back, and extended one leg behind her in the pure straight line of the arabesque. Out the corner of my eye I saw that Lord Belfrey also had a fast hold on the railing. Then he ceased to exist.
The music was from Swan Lake or, as my mother, who had been a ballet dancer, would have called it, Le Lac des Cygnes.
Gone also were the peasant skirt and black top. Molly was Odette in a white tutu with a cap of snowy feathers on her head as she leaped, twirled, and fluttered, light as down, achingly tragic… The early wobble must have been caused by a moment of distraction, perhaps as her eyes went to the door in fear of someone coming in and discovering her secret. For I had no doubt that this Molly existed in absolute secrecy, quite apart from the woman who worked in a supermarket and was probably most generally known pityingly as the meddling Mrs. Knox’s daughter. Suddenly, with a shift in tempo, she was Odile in black tutu and feathers, her movements no longer dreamy and sad but sharply edged, evilly bewitching, the pirouettes faster, the leaps even higher, so that it was hard to believe she could be airborne without being held up by strings. Again the music changed. No longer Tchaikovsky, but a composer I didn’t recognize. This piece was not white or black, but the misty gray of cobwebs, and that is what Molly became-a filmy drift upon the air, fragile beyond belief. I held my breath in the fear that she would brush against the billiard table and disappear. Then, abruptly, it was over. The music faded away to nothing and did not resume. Molly removed the ballet shoes, replaced them with her ordinary ones, picked up the player, and after a final furtive glace around her as if fearing that the walls had tongues as well as ears, tiptoed from the room.
“Incredible!” I said into the silence that descended.
“I’ll be damned!” said Lord Belfrey. After which we started down the stairs to hover speechless in the space where the magic had occurred. After a couple of minutes, I looked at him, he looked at me, we both nodded and went out into the hall. Understandably, Molly had not lingered there clutching the evidence of her secret life-unless she was hiding behind one of the larger pieces of furniture, which would make no sense, especially as who knew what recording devices peered and listened out of holes that only the likes of Whitey would find charming. It spoke to Molly’s desperate need to dance that she had taken so great a risk in the library. But for her surreptitious entry and exit, I might have wondered if she had entertained the possibility that his lordship might be a hidden audience to be enchanted into choosing her for his bride. No, her fearful uncertainty had seemed genuine. By now I felt sure Molly was back in her room, back pressed to the door, trembling at the enormity of her daring, yet glowing at the memory of the music that had given her wings.
I could see the lake in the moonlight as I stared rapturously into his lordship’s dark, unfathomably thoughtful eyes.
“It was the same for me, Ellie.”
“And yet the most incredibly beautiful moment was when she became the cobweb fairy. Oh, someone,” unaware of doing so I placed a hand on his arm, “has to write a ballet just for her and call it that-Cobweb and… Candlelight. She was both, wasn’t she… shadow and radiance!”
“Yes.” His mouth curved gently.
“I suppose the reason I care so much,” I continued haltingly, “is that my mother was a ballet dancer. She died when I was seventeen.”
“Such a vulnerable age.”
“I still miss her.” Words I hadn’t spoken in a very long time. A shaky laugh. “Not an ounce of her talent came my way.”
“You have other gifts.” There was no missing the tenderness in his voice, but he was a kind man.
“Something must be done about Molly. Oh, I don’t mean,” sensing his reaction, “that I think you ought to choose her as your bride, only that she can’t be left to dance in hiding. It’s such a waste.”
He nodded. “How blind we are much of the time to who people really are. She seemed so ordinary, but she isn’t… in fact, quite the opposite. You are absolutely right, Ellie, something so lovely should not be kept hidden.”
“Yes,” I whispered, enraptured by the thought of Molly curtsying amidst a shower of flowers as the curtain came down behind her.
“Pardon me for interrupting.” The suavely pleasant voice belonged to my husband. In the act of turning, I saw the hand I recognized as possibly… just possibly… my own resting on Lord Belfrey’s arm. It weighed a ton as I lifted it; a crane would have been useful, but there wasn’t even one in that foolishly jam-packed hall. Silly! Of course I was uncomfortable for nothing. Ben couldn’t possibly think his lordship and I had been looking just a little bit too cozy. Or could he? That tightening of the jaw, the brilliant flash of his blue-green eyes that accentuated the dark line of his brows did give me pause; as had been the case with Wisteria Whitworth when Carson Grant came upon her gazing limpidly into the eyes of the highly eligible justice of the peace shortly after her release from Perdition Hall. She had merely responded to his avowals of sympathy, yet she sensed with palpitating bosom and trembling lashes that Carson had misconstrued. A triumphant joy had seared her soul, before melancholy seized her. Looking into Ben’s now-closed face, I missed out on the joy and had to settle for melancholy for the heart-ticking moments it took for common sense to return.
“Hello, darling!” Wide smile. “Lord Belfrey and I have been sharing a magical moment.” Sensing from the lack of responsive glow that as clarifications went this was opaque at best, I entreated his lordship: “Is it all right to tell him?”
“Of course, but perhaps it should go no further at present.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t time just now to share whatever makes the two of you look so pleased with yourselves.” Ben twitched a smile that didn’t fully reach his lips, let alone his eyes. “Georges sent me looking for you, Lord Belfrey. He wants you in the dining room in ten minutes for luncheon with the contestants.”
“I’ll be there.”
“And, Ellie, Georges has requested that you join the ladies for the sweet. Regrettably, as I understand it, his lordship won’t be present for that course, but chocolate is always a great compensation, isn’t it?”