Chapter 3:
Ballet was a competitive, hierarchical world. Dancers, male and female, watched their fellow company members keenly from the sidelines, assessing who was jumping higher, faster, stronger than they were.
For Lizzie though, there was only one person she wanted to be better than: herself. When training and preparation fused together, when the movements became effortless, that was when she felt like she was flying.
"Lizzie, that was incredible," Fay Price said in a whisper at the end of their warm-up class, kneeling down to massage her calf.
Quietly lovely Fay Price had dark eyes and black curls twinned tightly in a bun. She usually kept to herself. She'd earned the rank of first soloist last season. She wasn't headlining like Elin Dashwood or Lucy Steele, but the title was a mark of distinction. She'd played the Dew Drop Fairy in this season's Nutcracker, and Elizabeth thought she was a shoe-in for meatier roles.
"The height you get in your jumps,” Fay continued, “you executed that Kitri jump beautifully, better than the rest of us combined."
A 'Kitri' jump---so called because it was an iconic leap from the role in Don Quixote--was actually a type of grand jetee, or great leap. Also called a sissone, the front leg remained straight in the air while the back leg extended up in attitude, as if trying to touch the spine. Done properly, they were beautiful and dramatic and very, very difficult.
Elizabeth loved them.
"Thanks, Fay," she answered with a warm smile, both surprised and flattered by the comment. Nothing gave her a rush like flying across the floor could, but the fact was she hardly remembered people were watching until she hit the ground again. "I wouldn't say 'better,' though. Your leaps were lovely. No one can rise up into relevee as easily as you can. Honestly, I think you're a lock for the Lilac Fairy in Sleeping Beauty this year."
"Oh, Lizzie, I wish that were true!"
Further discussion was interrupted by the fact that Alistair Allen rose from his seat at the edge of the rehearsal space. Sitting beside him against the wall was a barrage of Who's Who in the company. Elizabeth spotted the ballet master, choreographer, administrative director, music director, costumer, teachers.
Morning class was mandated for the whole company, from the principals to the corps de ballet. It was a great equalizer, one of the few times the entire company of dancers came together when they weren't on rehearsing on the stage. Most days, it had a wonderfully predictable routine. The purpose was to get warmed up for the rest of the day's rehearsal. It meant bar work at the start, then center work ranging from arabesques to port-de-bras, then jumps and turns (often in combination, with a variety of elements), and lastly, stretching. Today, while the company stretched, Alistair would talk.
Most of the company settled on the floor, legs extended into splits or stretches. A few hands reached for leg warmers, sweats, or large puffy booties to slip feet into. Anything to keep the muscles warm, and the muscles of the foot were particularly important. A handful of dancers grabbed water bottles.
As for Elizabeth, apart from tugging her blue booties onto her feet, she simply sat and waited. She watched Charlotte Lucas, one of the choreographers, slipped into the room.
Charlotte had become her first friend at the British Opera, and she was well familiar with her friend's little quirks. Rather than taking a seat with the rest of the staff in chairs beside the mirrored wall, Charlotte waved to Elizabeth and zig-zagged through the dancers, stopping to talk to a few of them before edging towards Lizzie. It was quite clear where Charlotte's loyalties rested in the company, and it wasn't with the administration.
"Morning, Lizzie," Charlotte greeted her.
"Char. Always the egalitarian," Elizabeth observed with a grin, noting there were more than a few disapproving looks that Charlotte chose to fraternize with the dancers rather than the staff.
"You know it," Charlotte answered, settling cross-legged beside her. "What's you schedule after this?"
"I'm rehearsing Sylvie at 11:00, Themes and Variations at 12:30, Ashton's La Valse at 2:00, physiotherapy appointment at 3:00, and a dress rehearsal for a role in 'Diamonds' at 3:30. My call time for stage is at 8:00. I'm Katia Ivanova's understudy, and she twisted her ankle last weekend, so--"
"You'll be dancing her part at the Balanchine exhibition tonight? Lizzie, that's wonderful! They're closing the exhibit tonight with Diamonds, and Katia's role is the focal point. I knew you'd make it out of the corps de ballet this season!"
Elizabeth grinned, but further comment was prohibited. Alistair Allen was pacing in front of the crowd, already demanding attention.
"Now that we have conquered the Christmas season, I think we can all give a hearty thanks over the fact that we will no longer be hearing the waltz of the sugarplum fairy backwards and forwards in our heads. Let us have a company wide round of applause for that, and also for our lovely Elin Dashwood."
Elin Dashwood was the most established--oldest---principal dancer in the company.
When she was all dolled up on stage, Elin could look as regal any lead, but here amongst the white walls of the rehearsal room she looked just like any other dancer. Unusually tall for a ballerina, with sandy hair, muted eyes and a lean face, Elin's face didn't immediately leap out of the crowd. She'd settled herself far in the back near the corps, and only managed a quiet smile and a wave when her name was mentioned.
"Elin," Alistair conclude, "as always, your performance was lovely from start to finish."
"No need to mention she's done Sugarplum fairy twenty times by now," Charlotte retorted under her breath. "She could do the bloody thing in her sleep, and the rest of us could fall asleep watching her do it."
"I thought she was great." Lizzie remarked with a shrug, choosing to clap for Elin.
Elizabeth supposed this was the big difference between a choreographer and a ballet dancer. The choreographer felt the movement, sure, but the dancer was the one actually doing it. Twenty times or not, the Sugar Plum Fairy wasn't a role to sleepwalk through. It took skill, not just in evening performances but also in matinees. Before coming to the British Opera Ballet, Lizzie herself had danced it in smaller, Irish productions. She knew the difficulty of it. Movements conveying airy, effortless grace could be just as hard as ones communicating grave conviction. Certainly the role wasn't Giselle or Odette, but it often went to the lead ballerina of the company for a good reason. Any dancer would conclude the night with a few aches and pains, and she was forced to do it all with a huge smile plastered on her face.
"As you know, our winter season continues enter the spring season preparing for a variety of challenging works. The showpieces for the coming season are Sleeping Beauty and Don Quixote. Lucy Steele will be dancing Kitri in Don Quixote. It's well earned, Lucy. As for Sleeping Beauty, Elin will be tackling the role of Aurora."
Lucy Steele for Kitri in Don Quixote. Elizabeth leaned against the mirrored wall, mulling that decision over as she drew her booted foot to her chest, flexing her arch. It wasn't Lizzie's immediate choice, but it made a certain kind of sense. Lucy had paid her dues with the company, she was not the prettiest of girls, nor the most naturally gifted, she had to work twice as hard as every other dancer, but she certainly possessed grit, determination and the drive to succeed. Whatever the cost. She always attacked her roles. The role of Kitri would make good use of her determination.
The true test would be if Elin could still handle the technical difficulty of Aurora. It was a plum role and there were more than a few disgruntled sighs amongst the dancers about giving it to the oldest ballerina in the company. Complaints seemed especially strong among the soloists.
"Elin's playing Aurora? Ridiculous." Charlotte snarked. "Look over there. Jenna looks less than thrilled." She pointed discretely to Jenna Fairfax, a pretty, golden haired soloist. "Honestly, who can blame her? Dashwood should have retired a season ago. Allen wants her as Aurora, fine. I'll help her pin down Nureyev's choreography, but let's see if she can even get through Beauty's first act. Her knees aren't as good as they used to be, and I thought her timing in Nutcracker was off."
Aurora's first variation in Sleeping Beauty--her 'entrance', so to speak--was quick, sharp, powerful and full of energy. This variation was followed directly by the rose adage, one of the slowest, most controlled, most challenging portions in the whole act. The lead had to partner with not just one, but four male dancers. The two portions combined required speed and energy, stamina, delicacy and incredible control.
"Aurora's first variation in Sleeping Beauty is long and difficult, you know that as well as I do," Charlotte continued. "If she messes up, it'll make for a long two hours. The role should have gone to Jenna, or Fay, or you, Lizzie. Alistair knows it. Elin should do us all a favor and retire."
"Elin's thirty-nine, not ninety-nine." Elizabeth answered, poking her friend in the side. "She'll be fine. Thank God she's still dancing. I'd like to have a career past thirty, you know, Char. Quite a few do it. Alessandra Ferri danced well into her forties."
"Elin Dashwood is no Alessandra Ferri."
It was a stinging remark, and one that made Lizzie frown.
"She's a beautiful dancer and she's worked hard for this company," Lizzie defended, "Alistair thinks she's strong enough to handle Aurora. Even more importantly, Tiberius Bertram, Lord Mansfield, thinks so too."
"You could do this role, Lizzie. You deserve it! You're stuck playing handmaids and snowflakes right now. Lizzie, you're so much better than the corps de ballet, and you know it. The few solos you do get, you shine in. You could handle this part."
"I know that Char, better than anyone," Elizabeth shot back with sudden unthinking annoyance.
“Well, I don't understand why no one promoted you at that ballet company in Ireland. You're a remarkable dancer.”
“I do,” Elizabeth frowned. She knew exactly why she hadn't been promoted in Ireland, though as far as she was concerned, it was none of Charlotte's business. Conscious that her muscles were cooling as her temper as flaring, she began flexing from her toe to the arch of her foot, heel to ankle, to keep both problems at an impasse. She slid into a split, stretching her muscles further. The slight discomfort as she pressed her muscles in a stretch beyond the body's natural limits suited her mood. Slight discomfort. She could hear other ballet dancers, both male and female, chatting amongst themselves. She knew she wasn't the only one getting tense at all this talk of who had earned what roles and promotions.
As for Allen, he loved the sound of his own voice even more than he loved creating drama amongst his audience. He was still talking. Lizzie loosened the deliberate tension in her legs and began to listen again.
"The company's own Edmund Bertram will be dancing opposite Elin as our Prince Désiré in Sleeping Beauty..."
Edmund was a wonderful lead, strong but sensitive. Suited for the prince in Sleeping Beauty.
The whole company could agree on that, for everyone clapped quite enthusiastically at both announcements. Fay, to Lizzie's interest, seemed to clap the loudest. Hearing it, Lizzie glanced at the girl with a curious little smile only to see her blush and quickly still her hands.
"Lastly," Allen continued, "The British Opera is thrilled to announce a very exciting guest artist. American Ballet Corporation’s Frank Churchill recently signed for a spot as a guest artist. He'll be arriving within days to begin rehearsal for the part of Don Quixote."
Surprised applause came from all around. At least, it came from everyone but Jenna Fairfax. That was a bit of a puzzle. Frank Churchill. Lizzie had heard of him by reputation, of course. He was frenetic in his energy, muscled in the calves, and from what she'd seen on film, capable of a theater's worth of bravado. He would practically leap off the stage as Basilio in Don Quixote.
"Further division of roles will be announced in the coming weeks. Some of you will have to familiarize yourself with new material, new practice hours and different teachers. There are a few important casting changes coming up. Not all of you will be pleased to see yourselves shuffled about, but do remember, there's no "I" in ballet. We are a company, we are a team, we are the British Opera Ballet, and each of you is expected to perform better than your best. Further questions about upcoming decisions can be fielded in my office, or for those of you feeling masochistic, may be taken up directly with our executive program director, Lord Mansfield."
"Tiberius Bertram, the frightening Earl of Mansfield. Now there's a casting couch none of us wants to be on," Lucy Steele whispered to one of her fellow dancers, Lydia Bourne.
Lucy Steele wasn't her favorite person in the company, but Elizabeth had to admit as she got to her feet that she agreed with the sentiment. Lord Mansfield was dictatorial, controlling, and was known for his wandering eye. He had a penchant for girls in tights, and generally made every woman from the principal to the lowest corps girl, uncomfortable. When he made decision there might be quite a bit of grumbling, but few would truly question it.
"Lord Mansfield? Definitely not," Lydia Bourne agreed, "I wouldn't mind his son, though."
"Edmund?" Lucy questioned incredulously.
"No, Lord Mansfield's other son, Tiberius Bertram IV, the famous young composer." Lydia corrected, “He's only nineteen, and he's the one that's due to inherit the Bertram fortune. He stops in sometimes to watch rehearsals. I tell you, Lucy, you never saw such a man. Young and gorgeous. Shame he doesn't have an interest in running the place when his father's done, because I'd get onto Tye Bertram's casting couch any day of the week."
Charlotte and Elizabeth exchanged amused looks as the pair wandered past them.
"I guess that's Lydia's great plan to get ahead," Charlotte observed with dry intonation. "Romancing the director's son. He's a rogue through and through, at least from what I've heard. The way of the world, Lizzie?"
"Not for all of us," Elizabeth answered.
She didn't need anyone else to get ahead. Elizabeth was one ballerina that preferred advancing with her own merits.
"I'd like to remind you that you've barely been back in the country a whole week," Will observed to Fred Wentworth over the phone. It was Friday, and Will was sitting in a cramped chair in a crowded London office, examining a very familiar view: the sunset. "Tell me again why I'm getting dragged along to this? Because last I checked, I not only picked you up when you got in from the airport--"
"A bit late, Will."
"By about five and minutes."
“I'm in the military. Anything less than exact is considered late.”
There was truth in the statement. Hardly anyone could beat Frederick Wentworth for punctuality. Or neatness. Or politeness. Wentworth had been staying with Darcy for a week, and the only real indicators of Fred's presence in Will's luxury flat were the front door shutting quietly at 5:00 AM when Fred went for his morning jog (if one could call a five mile run a "jog"), and the steady decrease of food in his fridge. Apart from that, the kitchen remained spotless, the room Fred was staying in remained pristine, and there wasn't so much as a crumb out of place.
Nevertheless, Will hadn't seen Fred in over a year. Wentworth had been who knows where, doing only the highest branch of the Navy knew what. Will had to rag on him a bit, it was brotherly duty. "You're staying rent free in my flat, you're eating all my food.."
"Right proper selection you've got too, Will. I love a good pile of cold cuts--"
"And you've lined up a date. It's not such a bad way to start your leave, Fred. Besides,” he leaned back in his chair. “You work for the Royal Navy Special Forces. You work in some of the most dangerous parts of the world. Surely you're not afraid of a blind date."
"Correction, this is a blind date my sister lined up for me. She's not a date, exactly. We're just hanging out.”
Will sighed. How old were they again? Old enough, surely, not to need a pal to tag along with them on a date. “I'm going to feel like an idiot.”
“I need a wing man, pal. If the date goes stale, I'll take her home like a gentleman and then you and I can grab a pint and catch the end of the Manchester United match."
“You owe me for this.”
"Remember what you told me before we jumped from that airplane in Africa? You said, and we all three agreed, that if one of us got stranded in a brush patch, the other two would hike until we found him. You can't leave me stranded here, Will," Fred reminded him. "No man left behind, you said to us.”
Will Darcy grinned. “That was a good time, wasn't it?”
“Paperwork for you, Will,” Candy stated as she entered the room. She held up a stack of briefings for him.
"You can leave those briefings right on my desk, Candy. Thank you," Will flipped one file open, scanning it quickly, before returning his attention back to Wentworth. "You know I'd rather have that brush patch in Africa. But I won't keep torturing you, mate, you sealed it at Manchester United. I'll be there."
"You're a good man, Will."
“I try, occasionally.” Will let his eyes drift from the page, glancing instead at the clock on his desk and rubbing his tension filled neck muscles.
Will specialized in international law, and was particularly active in working with the government to prosecute violators of the Geneva conventions. Even when he wasn't thinking about work, he was thinking about it. Will had been holed up here since half-six in the morning working.
He had a stack of paperwork he had to finish. Dinner would probably consist of the cold cup of coffee sitting at the edge of his desk.
Maybe Frederick was right. It would be good to get out, stretch his legs, interact with the rest of the world. "Fred, I'll see you at 8:00."
Now that Fred had returned, Will wondered how long he should wait before he or George mentioned two important words to him. Those two words were Anne Elliot.
The truth was, Will's loyalties ran deep. He would've agreed to serve as Fred's sidekick with or without the promise of a football match afterward. They were childhood pals, Will Darcy, George Knightley and Frederick Wentworth.
While Will and George were learning how to survive at Eton, Frederick Wentworth had been holding his own at a state run, Hackney school. Poor, scrappy Fred had earned everything he'd achieved. Will respected that. He even envied it.
They'd met as boys, during a fistfight. Will was embarrassed to admit years later that he himself been the instigator of the fight. Fred had stepped in to assist him. George had assisted in the cleanup.
They'd found common ground, the three boys, solidifying their friendship further when Will suggested Fred join them for pick up matches with their Eton mates.
Wentworth served as the game's keeper, Will was a striker. George played defense.
It was at one such game, on Frederick Wentworth's seventeenth birthday as it happened, that a young girl showed up who changed Fred's life forever. A Queen's College student, barely fifteen, had sat on the sidelines during one match. She'd caught Fred's eye, even from afar. He'd gone up to her after the game. He'd described her later as shy, very sweet, too beautiful to ignore, too innocent to realize he was flirting with her.
And that was it for him. Fred had been crazy about her, falling hard and fast and with every inch of his heart.
Will and George had known Anne for years. Refined, delicate Anne was half Hispanic, and half English. She was beautiful, with olive complexion, chestnut brown curls, a heart-shaped face, and a soft smile.
Anne came from money. Lots of it. She also came from a lineage. Her father was Sir Walter Elliot, a British aristocrat. Her mother's came from an offshoot of the Spanish royal family, with both Spanish nobility and Mexican conquistadors in her ancestry.
Fred adored Anne. He'd hung on her every word, watched every gesture, smiled at the barest encouragement, befriended her, and eventually, finally, became her boyfriend.
Poor and smart, Fred had been determined to make a name for himself. He'd joined the Navy at twenty. When Anne turned eighteen, he'd proposed.
The end was heartbreak.
There was more than a little disapproval from Anne's father and mother over the poor Navy boy who wanted to make her his wife.
Wentworth's total devastation over the breakup was something neither George nor Will ever wanted to see again. Fred had shown up at Oxford after his breakup with Anne. He'd gotten roaring drunk, and swore on his life that if he couldn't love Anne Elliot, than he would never know love again.
Then he'd cleaned up and shipped off.
That was years ago. Fred never spoke Anne's name in either man's hearing ever again.
That hadn't been a problem these past few years. Fred was rarely in London. Their paths never crossed.
Will knew they could only delay the inevitable for so long, though. Anne Elliot was living in London now. She'd struck up a friendship with Emma Woodhouse. The two girls were roommates, with a third girl—Lizzie, Emma called her—joining them in their flat.
A problem, thought Will. But perhaps not one that needs dealt with tonight.
For now, Fred had Louisa Musgrove to think about. Watching the pair over the course of an evening, Will wondered how far Fred would let this go. Louisa Musgrove seemed young to Will's eyes, and not in ways that Will found particularly charming. In fact, she was as far from Anne Elliot as it seemed Fred could get, blond, chatty, giggly.
Still, it seemed that Wentworth liked her well enough. That was what mattered. Fred was attentive to her, more than simple politeness required, and there was more than a little flirting passing between the couple. Feeling more like a third wheel with every second, Will leaned back in his upholstered theater chair and began planning his post-performance exit.
The performance started. Rather than performing a single ballet like Swan Lake or Giselle, the dancers were performing a series of shorter pieces linked by a common choreographer, Balanchine. The first piece, entitled 'Emeralds', was cool and serene, with high jumps and graceful movements.
"What's this performance about?" Will asked in a confused whisper, watching the dancers leap up stage. The dancers were wearing green, it was called Emeralds. That much he got. The rest of this was leaving him at a loss.
Frederick shrugged. “Beats me.”
"It's not about anything," answered Louisa primly. "It's Balanchine, very modern. It's about movement."
"Not about anything," Darcy repeated her words coolly, flipping through the playbill. "Great."
The second piece of the night, 'Rubies,' managed to garner more of his attention. The two leads--listed as Edmund Bertram and Fay Price in the playbill---were vibrant and energetic and had a definite frisson of chemistry between them. This lent an interesting dynamic to the routine.
The last piece, set to Tchaikovsky, was entitled 'Diamonds'. By now, Will's attention was keenly focused.
The lead dancer of the piece was striking.
They'd all been very good, of course, but there was something about this girl...
She wore an ethereal costume of silver and white, glittering with diamond accents.
Her skin was pale; her eyes were bright. A shining coronet rested atop her black hair. Delicate, beautiful, entirely alive, she had the face of a princess and the grin of a gypsy. Will decided she looked like a fairytale he'd heard once. Or maybe a dream.
Or maybe a fantasy, he decided, and flipped open his playbill once again. She was listed in the bill as 'Katia Ivanova.' Katia. A pretty name, though somehow he didn't think the name suited her. Why did she look familiar to him?
Ridiculous thought, his mind told him.
She could capture the audience's attention with a single glance of those remarkably expressive eyes and one sweetly mischievous smile.
"What color are those eyes," he wondered under his breath.
The dancer was now executing a rapid and complicated series of turns and leaps. It was as if springs were hidden in her pointe shoes. In the final part of her pas de deux, she melted against the male lead. It was as if his embrace was so warm, so desperately necessary, that she'd freeze without it. Darcy felt a rush of jealousy as the curtain shut.
Whoever got to hold her at the end of the night was a lucky man, he decided, and stood to clap when she made her curtain call.
"That was just beautiful, wasn't it?" Louisa Musgrove gushed as they exited the theater.
"The third act certainly was," Will agreed, sliding his hands into his pockets.
"It was alright," Frederick conceded.
"Right. " Louisa commented with a sudden lack of certainty. "Yeah, I thought it was....fine. Anyway, Frederick, tell me more about sailing? I love sailing!"
Will fell back, letting the two walk ahead. He was silently skeptical of Louisa's seafaring devotion, but that was for Frederick to figure out. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Like that ballerina with the incredible eyes.
The group exited the theater, heading down the street. The air held a cold, wintery bite.
"Will,” said Fred, “we're gonna get something from the nearby chip and fish stand on the corner. Do you want anything?"
"No, Wentworth, you go on ahead. I've...uh...got a call to make on my mobile."
Fred's smirk indicated he knew the comment for what it was—a ruse to give Louisa and Fred a little space. Still, he didn't argue it.
Will was left calling the one person he knew who'd always pick up his calls: his sister.
"Will!" Georgiana's young voice instantly warmed on the other line. "Where are you tonight? Not still at the office, I hope?"
"Actually, I've spent the evening at the British Opera House. A friend asked me to go to an exhibition here. A ballet."
"A ballet? Oh, Will, I'm so jealous! Was it very beautiful?"
"It was great," Will spoke with a quiet smile as he strolled leisurely behind the couple. " I wish you were here with me now."
"So do I.” She sounded so wistful, he thought, and so very young. "Will, you know I'm sorry about last weekend. Truly I am. I know how very mad you were, even days afterward. I can imagine how furious you were on the night."
“Georgie,” Will exhaled. "That calendar date's never an easy night for me.”
“For me, too.”
“Yeah, I know.” He scuffed one shoe against the concrete, “Anyway, I was a beast. I yelled at some girl I'd never even met before. A real credit to our Aunt Cat, to say the least."
"Ouch." That single word expressed how painfully their family could cut when they wanted to. "Did you at least get to say a proper apology?"
"No,” Will turned, “I--"
His voice tapered off.
There, standing at the corner chip stand, looking like some Cinderella who'd fled from her ball, was the lead ballerina from the Diamonds number.
A black coat was draped around her shoulders He noted the same expressive eyes and delicate cheekbones, the same dark hair, twined up in a bun. She'd changed her outfit, but a silver headpiece still rested on her head like a crown. Her rosebud mouth, colored with lipstick, was biting eagerly into a freshly fried chip. What he found most charming wasn't the costume or the makeup. It was the fact that as she stood waiting, she was doing little dance with her shoulders, trying to keep warm as she waited for two other women to place their order.
There was no boyfriend waiting for her with a bouquet of roses. No man to draw her coat more securely around her in the January chill, or to lean down and kiss her neck to warm her. The rush of desire he felt to do so himself nearly made him drop his phone.
"Georgie," he said with an odd note in his voice, "...I'll call you back."
"Another order of chips and cheese, please," Anne spoke, raising her voice for the man behind the portable stand to hear her. Chips and cheese had been the order of the night from their very own ballerina, Elizabeth Bennet.
"Lizzie, I can't believe they didn't credit your name in the playbill!" Emma said with a disappointed sigh. "Your very first chance at a leading role and they put in the wrong name as the lead dancer for Diamonds! I was going to frame the playbill for you, or at least put it up on the refrigerator."
"That's the company printing press for you," Lizzie laughed. "It's okay. There will be other opportunities. At least I didn't do badly by Katia's name. If anyone raves about how great she was tonight, I'll know I did my job well. When I get to dance my first lead role in a full length ballet at the British Opera, then you can frame the playbill."
"That's a promise," Emma agreed .
"It's going to happen this season, Lizzie, I'm sure of it," Anne assured her, giving her friend a quiet smile. Waiting for her order, she buttoned the top button of her coat. A cool gust of wind brushed past the trio. Anne shivered. “Emma, I don't know how you stay warm in that. I'd never keep warm in that outfit.”
Emma wore a petal pink sleeveless dress, sky high pink heels, and nothing else.
“It's not so bad, Anne. You could borrow this dress sometime, if you want? See how it feels?”
“I'd never fit into it.” Anne shook her head. Emma had a bombshell figure to go with her dress. At the present moment, she'd never fit into it. Twenty-six year old Anne, an elementary school teacher, found weight just melted off her these last few years.
“There's a simple solution for that,” said Lizzie, handing her a chip. “Anne, you need to eat more.”
“I forget to, some days.”
“You should start eating supper with me?” Emma suggested. “You know what would be fun? A makeover!”
“Oh, no!” Anne laughed.
“Please?” Emma begged. “We could let your hair down? You have this gorgeous hair and we never get to see it.”
Anne shook her head. She thought her days of catching a man's eyes were over.
Emma could garner attention. Emma was gorgeous, with her hair swept up into an elegant french twist, her dusky eye makeup, her glossy mouth.
Then there was Elizabeth: Lizzie was delicate, with thick, dark hair, an exquisitely delicate face, and bright green eyes. Under the silver accents of her stage makeup, Lizzie's beauty was truly otherworldly. She looked like the Queen of the Sprites, dusted with silver glitter.
Anne loved her friends, she was closer to either of them then her own two sisters. She was continually inspired by them, in awe of them, and encouraged by them.
Nevertheless, standing beside them, she couldn't help but feel drab. Her dresses were high cut, or loose fitting. She kept her hair hidden with her tight bun. It had been a long time since she'd dressed up for anyone in particular, including herself. A long, long time. Not since Frederick Wentworth.
Even now, after all these years, the thought of him brought a stab of longing and loss. Frederick. He'd been everything to her once. No matter how many years passed, it seemed she could never completely free herself from the thought of him. Even after all these years, she sometimes saw a man from afar and thought, for one split second, that it was him. It never was.
Tonight was one of those nights. From afar, she saw a man approaching who was the near image of Frederick Wentworth. Impossibly blue eyes, in an impossibly familiar face.
“Anne?” Emma questioned. “Are you okay? You have such a strange look on your face.”
“I--” Anne stammered. Even if it was rude, she couldn't wrench her gaze away from a man who looked that much like Fred. She hardly heard the question. “I don't know.”
It was impossible, she told herself, taking one panicked breath, and then another. After eight years, it was absolutely impossible. And yet there wasn't any question that it really was him. The closer he came, the more certain she was. He looked so much the same, taller, leaner, harder in the body and harder in the mouth, brighter in the eyes. She'd never met anyone before or since with eyes that blue.
"Frederick?" she whispered. "Frederick Wentworth?"
His eyes sharped in careful assessment, and then widened in disbelief. The color drained from his face.
"Anne?" He rubbed his eyes, then looked again. "Anne Elliot? I--I never would've recognized you..."
Few comments could hurt as much as that one did. Had she changed so much? Worse still, there was a woman on his arm. He was on a date.
"I...um...I'm here with my two friends," Anne tried to respond, feeling her own heart flutter with miserable anxiety. "Emma Woodhouse and Elizabeth Bennet. Lizzie was dancing in tonight's performance. She was the lead in the last act, Diamonds."
Will strolled up beside him. Fred wasn't the only one who looked surprised.
"Elizabeth....Bennet?" Will repeated in confusion. “And Emma?”
Lizzie glanced up.
Will's darkly searching gaze met hers. At last his questions about the distant dancer's eyes were answered. Her lively and enigmatic eyes weren't blue or hazel or brown. They were green, with just a hint of silvery gray. Elizabeth Bennet's eyes.
"Will,” she stated with a frosty edge in her voice.
Yet again, Will Darcy was at a complete loss for words. This was the dancer who'd enchanted him to the point of distraction, the one he'd wanted to give roses to, the girl who's neck he'd wanted to kiss on this dark chilly night. It was that waitress he'd met at the party, the one who'd so unnerved him New Year's Eve.
"Oh, hello Will," Emma spoke her own greeting, straining to sound cheerful amidst the tension. "And Frederick! Gosh, George told me you were back in town but I didn't have the chance to mention it to anyone. Imagine seeing you all here tonight! All we'd need is George and we'd make a pretty little group! He's working a night shift at the hospital though, and I expect he won't get off till sunrise. And look at my rudeness, Fred, I haven't--”
Fred couldn't rip his gaze from Anne. His next question was directed to Emma. “How could you possibly know each other?” Accusation lurked in the comment. “George and Will never said one word...”
“Well, for such a big city, London's a bit of a small place,” Emma's laugh was tight. “Anne and I became friends, and we both met Lizzie, and we all became roommates. Here we are, a happy trio. Gosh, I'm starting to lose track of who knows what about whom. Will, you seem to be staring at Lizzie. Lizzie here is a ballerina, you see? Lizzie, Will's a public servant. A barrister. He works for the government."
“You never mentioned--” said Will, shaking his head. “Elizabeth, I didn't realize you--”
"Danced?" Elizabeth guess, springing to life with the sudden flash of fire. Suddenly the queenly fairy looked like an avenging Fury. "Not bad for a girl trapped in the kitchens. I know conversing with a waitress is beneath you. Does the title ballerina make me more worthwhile? And you're a barrister, are you? That's just grand. How about you leave the cultural events to the rest of us, Will Darcy, and go spend your evening chasing ambulances. I, for one, don't have time for you. Anne, let's head for the car. Emma, we'll meet you there, okay?"
"Sure," Emma agreed with a sigh, watching the pair wander off.
She turned her attention to Will Darcy. Her brows shot up at the turmoil that reflected in his almost impossibly handsome face. "I saw the way you stared at her. Again.”
“It's...” He cleared his throat. It didn't matter to him what she did for a living. His reaction to her mattered a great deal to him. The fact that he'd felt this twice around her, and so forcefully, shook him to his core. “It's those eyes of hers. They seem to leave me speechless.”
“Her mind's not bad, either,” Emma remarked. “You're attracted to Elizabeth, aren't you? I knew you would be."
At last, Emma turned away from him, heading for the parking lot.
Chapter 4
Anne, Emma and Elizabeth's flat was small, nestled at the top corner of an old brick Victorian building. It boasted a small kitchen, a living room with two sweeping windows, one tiny bathroom, three bedrooms, and a single fire escape which snaked upward to a flat rooftop, and downward to a dark alley.
It was the best Elizabeth and Anne could afford. Emma could afford much better, of course, especially given her inheritance, but she said she'd rather be flatmates with two of her best friends than suffer loneliness in a luxury apartment without them.
Elizabeth and Emma hung back in the kitchen when they returned from the British Opera House, letting Anne flee to her bedroom to compose herself. Biting her lower lip in worry, Elizabeth's green eyes met Emma's blue ones. Neither held any answers.
"The famous Frederick Wentworth," Elizabeth repeated the name. “You could've warned her he was in town, Emma.”
"I didn't know. His trips here are spontaneous and rare. He's great friends with George, and with Will, though these last few years they've hardly seen him. They met up in Africa awhile back, and they keep in touch through letters, but every time Knightley mentioned Wentworth it was always in the context of the Navy. Wentworth's shipped out to the far ends of the earth. That sort of thing.”
Mulling this over, Elizabeth's gaze traveled to the closed door to Anne's room. Their friend lingered there alone, dealing with whatever storm of sorrow and misery and memories this new encounter with Frederick Wentworth had produced.
Elizabeth looked back to Emma, seeing decisive agreement in the blond's eyes.
"Ice cream?" Elizabeth suggested, heading for the freezer to search for Anne's favorite.
"I'll grab the spoons," agreed Emma, who was already reaching for the drawer.
Nearly two hours later, all three were crowded in Anne's room. They'd settled on the floor, eating and talking while they listened to Anne tell the story of Frederick. Pictures and mementos were now scattered on the carpet.
"So he was your first love," Elizabeth said quietly. Anne's only love, she realized, picking up a photograph.
The photo she was looking at had been taken in the center of London, Trafalgar Square, from the looks of it. She recognized the iconic fountain at the center. The boy and the girl in the picture were knee-deep in the water, as if they'd just gone for a swim.
They were soaking wet, facing one another in a close embrace. Anne wore a schoolgirl's uniform. Very posh, Elizabeth decided, from the crest on her damp blazer right down to the pleated skirt. Fred's school uniform was decidedly less glorified. If he'd had a jumper to go along with it, that had long since been discarded, and the state-mandated tie that hung loose around his neck that looked as if it had seen better days.
Both were quite young. The boy showed many hints of the handsome man he would become, with vibrant blue eyes that even the low resolution camera couldn't manage to dampen. The girl in the photo was simply stunning. Her olive complexion held a rich tan. Her dark brown hair reached to her waist. She looked healthy and happy and beautiful.
"Anne's looking at him as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered," Emma whispered to Elizabeth softly, quietly enough to avoid Anne's ears.
"Fred has the grin of a lottery winner," Lizzie agreed. The way her chin was tilted, she thought, the way his thumb lingered on her jaw. The photograph had captured the pair just before a kiss. It was beautiful. Simply beautiful.
What would it be like to be looked at the way Fred looks at Anne? Elizabeth wondered.
She pushed the question aside. Elizabeth believed she'd never have a life that looked like other peoples lives. She'd come to terms with that years ago.
"Anne, you look so very--" so very happy, Emma thought silently as she peered over Lizzie's shoulder to examine the photo. Instead, she finished with a wistful, "--young."
"It was June, right before I sat for exams. I was sixteen," Anne said, knowing which photo they were discussing without even glancing at it. Instead, she held a golden locket in her hands, tracing the heart as if it were a lost treasure. "Frederick was eighteen. I'd ducked out of school to meet him, missed my riding lesson, and came back late for the midday meal in the hall."
Emma set the photograph down onto the carpet, drawing her knees close. Her romantic imagination was already ten steps ahead. She was itching to ask who had thrown whom into the fountain, plus how exactly had the strict Queen's College teachers and a formal dining hall's worth of students responded to Anne Elliot returning to the school for dinner, wet from head to heel.
To Emma, Anne and Frederick's story was the stuff great plays were made from. But to experience that sort of all-consuming love so young...small wonder it had marked Anne for life. The injustice of it practically crushed Emma, and she hadn't even been the victim of their separation. There had to be something she could do to help...
"Maybe this is the perfect time to make more memories with Wentworth? You're single. He's here in London. It's not like you're under your parents' thumb any longer..." Her eyes lit up with sudden enthusiasm. "I could get his phone number from George? You two could talk, maybe even tonight? Meet up for coffee tomorrow? Or another meeting at Trafalgar Square? After all these years, oh Anne, wouldn't it be romantic?"
"Trafalgar Square," Anne breathed. The mere thought brought panic. He would never want to meet her there, of all places. In fact, after tonight she was certain he would never want to see her again. He hadn't even recognized her, that was how thoroughly he'd blocked her from his memory. He had loved her as no man in her life had loved her, and in return all she had given him was a broken heart. He wanted nothing to do with the thought of her.
"That was a long time ago," Anne brushed the suggestion aside, pocketing the old charm, and pitching her voice to calmness. "We were little more than children, really. He's all but forgotten me, you see. It was just the shock of seeing him that threw me tonight, but I'm quite alright now. I'm sorry if it ruined your evening, Lizzie, Emma."
"Forgotten you?" Emma interrupted in confusion. "I don't think--"
"Anne, it didn't ruin anything," Elizabeth was quick to jump in.
"--it's been a long time," Anne continued, cleaning up with sudden speed. "He's obviously found someone else that makes him happy, as he should. I'm pleased for him, really I am. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, but I'm alright for now. I promise. You know how much you both mean to me, and I'm so grateful you were here when I met him again, but these are nothing but old memories." She gave her best attempt at a brave smile. "And I'm quite tired. I think I should get some sleep."
"We understand," Elizabeth answered. "We'll let you get some rest. Right, Emma?"
"I--oh, yes, of course." Emma nodded decisively, hugging her friend tightly, though there was still a furrow in her brow as she pulled away. Anne and Frederick had lost so much time, and destiny had brought them together again. Surely Anne wasn't just intending to let this second chance pass them by?
Anne's bedroom door had shut behind them, Emma sighed and turned to Elizabeth. "I think she should call him.”
"I noticed." Elizabeth answered with a wry little smile. The smile quickly faded to concern. "I'm worried about her, though. She hasn't been looking healthy lately, she's much too thin. And I'd love for things to work out for her and Frederick, but it looks like he's gotten himself a new girlfriend."
"Anne is too thin," Emma agreed without hesitation. "Especially compared to those old photographs. She was a real knockout, did you notice? And Fred said tonight he barely recognized her. Still, I saw the way he looked at her. Did you notice? Too busy looking at Will, were you?"
"Will." Elizabeth grimaced. "Emma I swear, I don't know how you're friends with him."
"Yes, I am friends with him," Emma repeated. "And so's George. I know Will's not your favorite person, Lizzie, but if you could just try to get along with him. Not just for me, but for George. Knightley's known Will almost as long as he's known me, and they've gone through some very difficult experiences together. It would hurt him if you hated Will, and that would hurt me, too. Trust me on this. Please? Will doesn't have to be your best friend, but if you could at least manage to nicer to him?"
"For you, and for George," Elizabeth agreed begrudgingly. "I'll try, okay? And as for Fred, I'm not as blind as you might think. Anne might not have seen it, but I noticed the look in Frederick's eyes when he realized who she was. It definitely wasn't the look of a man who's forgotten that day in Trafalgar Square."
***
Barely a week without him, and already Emma already missed Knightley like crazy. Knightley finished his shift at the Royal London Hospital at 4:00 AM. He would probably sleep until noon. This meant that she could make breakfast, do the dishes, clean her closet, call her father (who was currently visiting Japan to attend an international business summit), shower, dress, and catch the tube from Victoria to Notting Hill Gate, and still manage to get to his home in time to be the first person he saw when he woke.
And then her mobile rang. It was Will Darcy, of all people. He hadn't had much time to talk, and offered zero explanation, but he'd wanted to know one thing: when could he speak with Elizabeth Bennet in person, what was her schedule like today, and would she be available to talk?
She couldn't smother her own grin even as she recollected this on the underground. Elizabeth was working her second job tonight, waitressing at MacClaren's Pub, she'd told him that much. Darcy would show up and apologize for acting so atrocious their first meeting, Lizzie in turn would say she was sorry for her behavior, they would make amends, he'd ask her out, she'd say yes, they'd fall madly in love and one day end up getting married. Possibly next Christmas.
This was the first step, and she hadn't even had to push Will into it. It was all working out perfectly.
The sun was shining as she walked from the tube station to Knightley's home. The air was crisp and cool, and in no time at all, she reached his home and pulled out the key to the back door. She would cut through the kitchen to the dining room staircase, bound up the steps, and wake him.
Only she found once she opened the kitchen door that George Knightley was wide awake, in the kitchen making his morning cup of tea at noon, and grilling himself a sandwich on the oven top. And, it seemed, he was doing all of this without his shirt.
"I--" Emma faltered in the doorway, momentarily voiceless. He was sporting jeans that hung neatly around a lean waist, damp hair, freshly shaven cheeks, and the end of a Christmas candy cane in his mouth. The radio played quietly in the background.
Heavens, he's gorgeous, she realized as her gaze slid from his chest to the play of his mouth. Momentarily unable to tear her gaze away from him, she blushed and turned her head in the general direction of the teapot.
"Sorry," Emma's voice emerged as a squeak, "Should've have called first."
"Emma," Knightley lowered the burner. He walked over to where he'd tossed his a faded rugby shirt and tugged it on. "You're welcome any time, you know that. Come in.”
“Next time I can call--” she repeated weakly.
“You never have before. I'll be disappointed if you're getting polite on me.”
She let out a slow breath, indulged him with a smile and dropped her purse on the kitchen table. If he'd noticed her embarrassment or had guessed at the direction of her thoughts, he'd tactfully sidestepped the issue. At least for now. "Um...how was your shift in the E.R. last night?"
"Long. Stressful." He turned his attention back to the sandwich on the grill. "Four car accidents, one with severe head trauma. An elderly woman who fell in her bathtub. A man on a bicycle who got hit by a taxi A boy who swallowed half a bottle of Tylenol. I was assisting Dr. Foster.” He gave her a tired smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "I get stuck working with him all night, so of course he'd be crazy."
"I'm sorry," she said softly, wanting to reach out and touch him but unsure if she should. The things he saw every day..she wanted to help him somehow, to relieve his stress and to comfort him. His world at the hospital was so removed from her own, though, and when he recounted all of the horrible things he bore witness to, she felt that much more helpless.
As for George Knightley, he flipped his grilled sandwich and deliberately didn't mention that most difficult part of his night had been Emma's absence.
He didn't mention how lonely he'd been coming home to an empty house. How much he'd ached for her when he got here. Not just the warmth of her embrace, the sweet scent of her hair. Not just her soft skin and her even softer laugh. He had those thoughts, and they were enough to cause the worst kind of insomnia. But what he longed for was more than simply physical. It was her smile, and the kindness in her eyes. The way she could make him feel like the world could still be sweet and good, when he'd spent all night steeped in blood and sorrow...
"How was Elizabeth's exhibition?" he asked, clearing his throat and deliberately turning the conversation in a direction that was quite the opposite of his thoughts. Her friends, that was a safe subject...
"Amazing," Emma admitted, unbuttoning her coat and discarded it on a nearby chair. "Elizabeth was remarkable. I see her every day, and I know how hard she works at what she does. But sometimes I forget, you know? And then she gets up on stage, and she's just transformed. Honestly, Knightley, it's incredible how talented she is. I was in awe of it." She raked her hands through her golden hair and allowed herself an ironic laugh. "Maybe not the best thing to ponder when I'm dealing with my own quarter life crisis, but still...I was so proud of her, I could burst."
"Emma. Whoever you are right now," Knightley told her quite seriously, "whoever you want to be in the future, I'm always proud of you. Okay?"
His dark eyes were so serious, so sincere but still so incredibly warm, insecurity slowly melted away. She managed a sincere smile back and nodded quietly. "Okay."
"Good." He turned back to the oven and switched off the burner before transferring his sandwich to a ceramic plate. When he walked back over to her, he put the plate down, and lifted her up on the counter with no preamble at all. She noticed it had been sliced in two.
"Want to help me eat my lunch?" he offered with a quirking smile.
"Hmm...models can't eat like this," she reminded him. The sandwich on the plate consisted of two types of cheese, tomatoes, and plenty of chicken between thick, freshly baked Italian bread. It smelled divine. "You don't keep an eighteen-inch waist on food like this, you know."
"But you're not a model anymore."
"I know." She grinned, picked up half the sandwich and took a large bite. "It's great, huh?"