"Turn out your working leg in that attitude, Anna." Elsie said, walking slowly behind the corps as they rehearsed the opening sequence. The last production of the summer— Giselle—was just a couple of weeks away from opening.
Principal dancer and Giselle herself, Mary Crawley, warmed up quietly at the barre, her long elegant legs stretching almost impossible lengths. Her eyes closed, she seemed indifferent to the flurry of activity around her. The gentle thud of pointe shoes hitting the floor as the dancers leaped and turned around her. Edith, the middle Crawley sister, was dancing in this section since she was still in the corps de ballet — another season, another missed opportunity to advance. The youngest sister, Sybil, had been gifted with a natural talent for the art and had become a soloist, much to her parent's pride and older sisters' dismay.
"Edith, watch your plié on those glissades!" Elsie said, tapping the girl pointedly on the shoulder.
Taking a few steps toward the front of the room, Elsie folded her arms across her chest and watched as the girls continued, occasionally calling out over the music for them point their toes or be mindful of their port de bras. When the music came to an end, the girls relaxed, huffing and puffing as they made to fetch their water bottles.
"No! Again." Elsie said curtly, turning gracefully toward William, the rehearsal pianist, "Take it from the coda, please."
The girls straightened up, tried to steady their breathing and prepare to launch into the dance again. Elsie clapped her hands, the sound making even Mary jump.
"Come on, girls! Enough dawdling. If you can't catch your bloody breath after a rehearsal what makes you think you'll be able to manage performing the full ballet for a season with one dark night a week — if you're lucky? Come on, let's go. William, the coda, if you please."
The girls hurried to their positions and Mary paused, letting her lower back rest against the barre as she watched. Elsie eyed her from across the studio.
"Are you stretched, Miss Crawley?" she said, tucking her chin indignantly, "You'd never know if you're warm by the icy look you're always giving us."
The girls snickered and Mary blushed, turning back to the bar indignantly. As the music swelled around them, the girls flitted about, Anna leading them with grace and precision. It was a well known fact that not only had she trained on scholarship money and the good will of her instructors, but that she was being groomed to be a principal. Elsie made little attempt to hide the fact that she favored Anna and that hadn't exactly made the poor girl many friends in the company.
From the doorway, Beryl Patmore observed all of this, furrowing her brow a bit. The physiologist had known most of the girls since they were students. She knew who had bad ankles, arch problems — eating disorders. Whatever malady befell the girls, she knew about it. Having never been a dancer herself, but long been around the art, she had never quite figured out why the girls or their male counterparts, would suffer so much physically and emotionally to dance, if they were lucky, perhaps fifteen or twenty short years?
"Damn it, Anna! Turn your foot out! Do you want me to come over there and break your bloody ankle?"
Beryl winced; what had gotten into Elsie? She was never so persnickety. Tough, yes. But always kind. She ran her girls ragged, but never with an iron fist. Never with the glowering, hateful tone she was giving them now. Taking another step into the studio, Beryl could see Anna valiantly trying to hold back tears. The music ended and unlike before, when the girls had skittered away, they all held up their shaking arms, waited on baited breath to be properly dismissed.
"Again!" Elsie barked, but Beryl hustled up next to her, placing an arm on her shoulder.
"Hate to disturb you but you've gone over ten minutes and Miss Baxter needs to get these girls fitted," Beryl said, her voice a purposefully loud whisper. She hoped, maybe, she'd give the girls a bit of hope.
Elsie sighed, looking at her watch, "Oh — bugger it," she said, "Alright, girls, you are dismissed — except for you, Miss Crawley. I believe you are working the pas de deux?"
"Yes, Madam." Mary said, lifting her arms into a beautiful arc.
The girls scurried away, all but Anna, who lingered somewhat mournfully in the corner, painfully removing her pointe shoes, which she'd all but bled into.
"You need tape, love?" Beryl said, nodding to her. Anna lifted her teary eyes, shaking her head softly. Beryl frowned at Elsie, who was watching the girls leave, her eyes harsh and impatient.
"Speaking of fittings, I suppose I've got to go talk to her about digging that bloody awful sequined thing out for the premiere," she growled, "If I wanted to get gussied up for these things I'd not have retired."
"What's gotten into you anyway?" Beryl said, "You've been a real bint lately," she eyed her friend, leaning in slightly, "Married life not everything y'thought it'd be?"
Elsie rolled her eyes, plunking herself down in a nearby chair so that she could slip her shoes back on, "That's been the least of my worries," she said, referring of course to her recent marriage to Charles Carson. The artistic director of The Royal Ballet, he and Elsie had been in a long term relationship for decades, but hadn't considered tying the knot at all until Elsie left the stage herself. She'd been one of the longest dancing (or suffering, depending on how you looked at it) ballerinas at the Royal Ballet, probably all of the United Kingdom, having only five years ago when she'd just turned forty. She was retained as an instructor but sometimes she wondered what her life would have been like if she'd gone another way — never danced at all.
She'd given her entire life to the ballet — and what had it given her in return, other than permanent shin splints and scarred up toes?
"You'll probably need to have Miss Baxter let the dress out a tad," Beryl laughed, "I see retirement has done wonders for your bosom."
Elsie scoffed, "I beg your pardon?"
Beryl nodded toward her, "You've got knockers all of a sudden, surely you've noticed? Or, if not you, I'd think your mister would have by now. I'm surprised they don't about knock you out when you show the girls how to do their pique turns."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Beryl, I've not put on that much weight."
"I don't know, love. You've certainly softened up. And it's not a bad thing! Trust me. Did you really want to stay miserably thin you're entire life?" she shook her head, "I look at these poor girls and think, ack! How can they possibly be comfortable? Bones sticking out on all sides like they are."
Elsie sighed, "An aesthetic, I'm afraid. And an endearing one at that."
"Blame the Russians," Beryl said, "I didn't mean to point it out, if you're feeling a little sensitive. But you look well. Really. All aglow." she smiled, waggling her eyebrows a bit, "Marriage suits you."
"I thought he'd never ask," she shrugged, "I was ready to spend my life alone and now, here I am, almost at midlife properly and — I don't know, I feel as though I've started all over again. I'm not more the wiser about how to do this than these young wisps I'm teaching."
"Ach! Nonsense. You've got sense enough not to get up the duff like that poor girl from last season, Ethel?" she shook her head, watching as Elsie reached down to fasten the delicate buckles on her heels. Her ankles, which had always been quite delicate, were a bit puffy, the strap pressing into them in a way that seemed painful at worst and unwelcome at best.
"Bloody things!" she murmured, cursing the shoes or her ankles — or both.
"For shit's sake you're not knocked up, are ya?"
"Ha!" Elsie cackled, "Beryl Patmore you know better than anyone I've not had a period in thirty years — a professional perk!"
"Well, maybe not when you were dancing but — if you've put on a bit of weight, not been so stressed out — you could still well have gotten your cycle back. You're a bit young for menopause."
"Look Beryl, we're not going to sit here and talk about my menstrual calendar. Even I'm not that uncouth."
"Well, I am," Beryl said, "You should take a pregnancy test."
"Un-bloody-likely," Elsie snapped, "Stop treating me like one of the girls. I'm a grown bloody woman and I can take care of my bloody self!" She stood, albeit a bit too quickly, and immediately slunk back down into the chair, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.
Beryl gave her a knowing look.
"I suppose you and mister Carson have always been perfect about your contraception, too, eh?"
Elsie blushed, "Well, after we got married…and even before. . .it's not like we haven't been exclusive this entire time, Beryl," she said, her voice in a desperate whisper, "But I've not had cycles, not regularly anyway. I'd've thought it reasonable I was infertile. Given what I put my body through — what all these girls are — you know what it's like. And they won't be likely to dancenearly so long as I did, and God only knows how I managed it," she sighed, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes, "Wouldn't that be a bloody joke."
Beryl knelt down next to her, putting a hand affectionately on her knee, "You don't really feel that way, do you? And something tells me he wouldn't either."
Elsie's eyes shot open, glaring down at her friend, "The last thing he'd want, at our age, is a baby," she said, though her eyes conveyed to Beryl that she wasn't all that sure of her words.
Beryl only shrugged, straightening up and looking down at her, "Now did he tell you that or are you puttin' words in his mouth because you're too afraid to ask outright?"
"We never thought it would be possible," Elsie said quietly, "It was never even a question because we just assumed —"
"Well, you know what they say about assuming, Els."
"I suppose I've got to get a kit at Boots?" she said, letting her face fall into her palms.
"I've got about twenty of 'em in my office," Beryl laughed, "Come on, then. Hope you've got a good tinkle in ya."
They'd moved in to his flat when they married — but only because it was bigger. Elsie had insisted that he, and anyone else, understand that she had acquiesced on matters of convenience only and was still going to assert her independence on every possible occasion.
Beginning by not taking his last name.
"I've made a name as Elsie Hughes," she'd blustered, "I worked hard to earn that—bled for it even! I'm not forfeiting it."
Charles had understood, of course. He would never begrudge her that. He'd watched her become one of the most beloved principal dancers not only in London, but abroad. She had achieved the absolute height of success as a performer and done so longer than most of her charges could ever hope for.
He couldn't be prouder to know her, to love her. To be loved by her.
Ruminating on this fact, he turned the heat back on the stove. She was a bit late, but not enough to make him worry. They both had lived in London long enough to know that if they didn't manage to skip out before the mad rush they'd be sorry for it.
Humming to himself — the overture from Giselle, which everyone had been humming for weeks and no doubt would be for weeks after the run ended in late fall — he looked thoughtfully at their wine cabinet, trying to decide which of his many bottles would do best with the meal he'd prepared for them this evening.
She came blustering in just as he reached for a Malbec. Turning from the cabinet as she stepped into the room, he stopped short. She looked uncharacteristically disheveled.
"Was traffic quite so bad?" he said, chuckling a bit, "Looks like I had better better put a kettle on."
"Charles?" she said quietly, gripping the straps of her purse between her hands.
"Yes darling?" he said, reaching for a pair of wine glasses.
"No wine for me tonight, I don't think." she said.
He turned, peering over his shoulder at her, "Oh — well, alright then. I've chosen a nice Malbec. I think you'll rather like it, especially with the —"
"No wine, Charles." she said, letting her gaze fall, "I'm — I'll go get changed. Tea would be lovely."
Charles watched her disappear down the hall, regarding her curiously.
He thought, for a moment, she looked a bit more buxom than he remembered. He turned back to his wine, smiling to himself.
Not that he was complaining.
She had been quiet at dinner, waved it off as being tired. Stressed out by rehearsals. He'd taken her word for it, or so she thought, so when he snuggled up against her back as they lay in bed, kissing her behind the ear and sighing, she didn't expect to be caught out.
"I've known you for twenty years," he said, his deep growl humming against her back, "This is not another-opening-another-show angst. You've something else on your mind. I hope I've not done something to upset you."
She smiled, her eyes closed and looking toward sleep, "You've known me twenty years, surely you've figured out by now that if you had, I'd've damn well told you by now."
He laughed, pulling her closer, "You've got me there," he paused, running his hands along the front of her nightgown, over her breasts — which filled his palm now, easily, in a way he couldn't remember them ever doing before. Continuing on downward he felt her stomach tense against him — a softness there too that surprised — but also delighted him. He let his palm settle against her warm belly, nestling his head on her shoulder. He wasn't daft enough to verbalize the fact that she was softer, maybe gained some weight, filled out with feminine curves — but he hoped she'd figure out that he was pleased.
After a few sleepy moments, she rolled over in his arms, looking up at the ceiling. His hand still splayed across her middle, he rubbed it gently without thinking much of it and her eyes snapped down to look at him.
"Why're you doing that?" she said, her burr thick for a moment. He blanched, uncertain as to what he could have possibly done wrong.
"I — well, I just —"
"I've been laying here trying to figure out how to say it," she said, her eyes tearing up, "And maybe you already bloody well know…"
"Know what?" he said, "Is this about —" he hesitated, "So you've filled out a bit! You don't see me complaining, do you? I didn't bloody fall in love with you because you were a waif. I don't give a damn what you look like so long as you're happy and you're in good health. Which, if we're honest, were you really in good health when you weighed a measly 7 stone?"
She bit her lip, then, pressing her eyes closed to staunch the tears.
"It's not that I've gained weight, Charles — it's why I have."
He waited a moment until she let out a shuddering breath, letting her head loll toward him on the pillow. He searched her gaze for an answer but came up short, other than to realize she had teared up considerably.
"What is it, then?" he said, reaching over to brush an errant strand of hair from her face, "You look as though you're about to tell me something quite dreadful. I'm all agog."
She laughed, trying to muster up a bit of courage, "Well, I hope you won't think it's dreadful," she said, settling her hand atop his way it lay idly against her middle, "But it would appear that we've got something more to worry about than Nutcracker auditions this winter."
He blinked, then furrowed his brow, "What then?"
She sighed, letting her tears fall though with a light laugh at the absurdity of what she was about to say—"I'm pregnant, Charles."
"What?" he breathed, "With — with a baby?"
She snorted, reaching a hand up to stroke his face, "No, you twat, with agiraffe."
"Oh my God — a baby? A baby?" he said, sitting up suddenly and jostling the bed in the process, "But — but I thought?"
"I don't know," she said quietly, reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks, "I honestly didn't think I could — you know what women do to their bodies, for dance, the abuse it takes — I never would have thought —"
"Oh my God," he whispered, covering his face with his hands as he leaned back against the headboard. Elsie sat up slowly, realizing that shock may not have been his dominant emotion.
"Are you …unhappy?" she said, pulling the blankets up around her knees, "I don't have to keep it if you'd —"
He dropped his hands from his face, his eyes boring into her, "Elsie — oh, Christ, no. I'm not unhappy in the least — overwhelmed, maybe. . Woefully unprepared. But not unhappy. Never unhappy." He looked down at her, then, reaching a hand down to tentatively stroke the length of her upper arm, "Do you — would you not want to have a child together?"
"I do — oh, how I do. Or at least— how I did. For years I thought, oh, how lovely would that be? But it was only just a thought — I couldn't have had a child then, when we were young. I would have had to give up my career. I made a choice, or rather, resigned myself to it," she flicked her eyes up to his, "I never considered for a moment that this would happen. Maybe I've been terribly naive but —" she bit her lip prettily, batting her eyelashes a bit.
He lay a hand on her middle again, feeling the softness of her nightgown against his palm.
"Does it feel like a girl?" he asked, trying not to betray his usual unsentimental exterior with the boyish wonder that had suddenly filled his voice, filled the room around them.
Elsie laughed, "Right now it feels like food poisoning."
"Whose the twee little twat playing Clara this year?" Mary said, leaning across the bar to where Anna was pulling her leg up in a long stretch.
"Her name is Daisy Robinson and she's lovely," Anna said, not looking Mary in the eye, "And you're only bitter because you're dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy — again."
Mary sighed, "I could dance that in my bloody sleep," she grumbled, "Not that I could have danced Clara, of course, I'm far too tall — but there are so many soloists who would have been better suited. Who do they think they're kidding, pulling some little nobody from the corps?"
Anna shrugged, massaging the arch of her foot, "I don't think you should be so quick to cast her off. Give her a few years and she might be dancing your roles."
Mary stuck her tongue out at Anna; in their way, they were friendly. Had some camaraderie at least. They'd been in the same circle of dancers since their days at the academy. Anna was far too sweet to formerly cast Mary off, but she wasn't entirely afraid to call her out on her shit either. Before she had time to mull it over further, Madame Hughes flew into the studio, her chiffon blouse trailing her in a wake of perfume and a faint air of mystery.
She clapped her hands, beckoning all her girls — and William, at the piano — to attention.
"Alright — Waltz of the Flowers. From the top. Don't give me noodle-arms in that last section, I'm tired of yelling at you about it — Anna, darling, remember you've got to tighten your tummy on that lift — poor Thomas can't haul your dead weight."
"What weight?" Edith scoffed, though they all looked at Anna with more than a bit of envy. She was tiny, lithe, sweet-faced. The only thing going against her, of course, was her height. But on pointe she was just tall enough to get by.
"From the top, William."
The piano came to life with the familiar tune and Elsie almost immediately sat down in the corner chair she'd routinely begun to pull over for herself. She'd been adeptly hiding her condition for the better part of six months, but she was certain that half the company knew, or thought that they did, and now that she really could no longer hide the fact that she'd begun to show — and that she was perpetually exhausted and off balance — she was going to have to fess up.
And likely soon.
Only further complicating matters was the small issue of her due date, which happened to fall during the final week of the Nutcracker in mid-January. Hopefully she could avoid going into labor backstage, which, while it would be memorable, would earn her considerably ragging from the stagehands, who had enough trouble mopping up glitter and potato flakes. All they needed was her staggering about, having broken her water and tripping up all her principal dancers in the process.
She watched as little Daisy crossed the studio, always a gleaming smile on her face. To be young, Elsie thought, watching her effortless movement, graceful arms and slender, perfect lines. She'd plucked her from the corps for the sole reason that she stood out — with proper training, the girl could easily be a soloist within the next year. She practically already was, considering how she could hold nearly anyone captive.
Watching her dance alongside Sybil, a sweet little monkey-see-monkey-doroutine in the middle of the waltz's ovation, Elsie couldn't help but smile not only at Sybil's endearing glances toward the younger dancer, but the pure joy on Daisy's face at being taught — not only in the ballet as Clara, but as a young girl, dancing her first role, in one of the most prominent ballets in the world.
The music crescendoed and the rest of the corps nearly floated in — and that's when Elsie felt it. The subtlest little thump in her belly. Before she could think better of it, she pressed her hand to the spot, tightening the fabric around her middle — which had, of course, been getting looser and looser as the months had worn on, but now was taut around what was clearly, unmistakably, a pregnancy.
She only realized the music had stopped when she looked up to see dancers all looking at her expectantly.
"Again, please, William," she said, blinking out of her reverie, "Lovely work, everyone."
A few raised eyebrows aside, a collective sigh of relief was heaved.
Then, the music began again.
Removing his reading glasses, Charles yawned, pushing the programs he'd been proof reading to the side as he leaned back into the cushions of their couch. Next to him, Elsie sat dutifully sewing pointe shoes.
"Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't it the dancer's responsibility to do that?"
Elsie shrugged, tugging at the thread she held between her teeth, "I don't mind helping out, especially this time of year. You know how stressful The Nutcracker is."
"They ought to call it The Ballbuster," he laughed, fighting off another yawn.
"Trust me— they do." she said, threading the silky ribbon between her fingers.
"How is your little Clara fairing?" Charles asked, setting his eyeglasses down on the coffee table and reaching for one of the many pointe shoes stacked up therein.
"Quite well. Nervous, but her technique is flawless. She's enthusiastic. Not jaded in the least. Grinning through the pain, as we all once did."
"How many times did you dance The Nutcracker?" he asked, bending the yet unbroken pointe shoes along its arch; something she'd taught him years ago.
Elsie sighed, "Well, I probably danced at least a hundred performances in the corps, then another season as a soloist, then two years as the Snow Queen, then the Sugar Plum Fairy for…God knows how many there…" she laughed, "Too damn many performances, that's how many. But there's no escaping it."
Charles laughed, "I still enjoy it — not my favorite by any stretch of the imagination — but still. I will always love the Mouse War!"
Elsie squinted at the shoe she was working on, bringing it under the light from the table next to where they sat, "There was only one role that eluded me," she said cryptically, "And of course I'll never dance it now, but part of me sincerely hopes one day Anna may."
"Oh?" he said, his interest clearly piqued, "Let me guess — it's from a Balanchine?"
She smirked, "Am I that transparent? Of course it is," she sighed, "I never got to dance Rubies. I wasn't sultry enough for it."
"I beg to differ," he said, leaning over to kiss her neck. She wriggled away from him, though only slightly.
"Mind the needle," she warned, "And argue all you want but that was the truth of the matter. You had to be particularly amorous for Rubies and I just …wasn't."
"What about now?" he said, running a hand up the length of her thigh. She laughed, deep in her throat, turning away from her work only long enough to kiss him squarely.
"Given how large I am at the moment, I doubt I could feel any less amorous," she said.
"You look marvelous and don't forget it," he said, kissing her ear, letting his lips linger there a moment, "I suppose the more pertinent question is — how do you feel?"
"Tired," she lamented, "Oh! But, I did feel her today."
He raised an eyebrow, "Her?"
Elsie blushed, "I've a hunch. I know we want to be surprised but — well, I'll change my mind tomorrow. Sometimes it feels decidedly girlish, other times — like when I get a swift kick in the ribs — I'm convinced otherwise."
Charles grinned, "So today you felt her, but your rib cage wasn't fractured?"
"Blessedly, no, I was spared," she said, "It was during rehearsal, actually," she looked up, "I think we're going to have to make a formal announcement. I can't keep it hidden any longer. I'm all but sitting down the entire time now, and today - well, I'm certain they all noticed when I laid my hand there, when I felt her kicking," she placed a hand on her belly thoughtfully, "It was during one of Clara's pas de deux."
"Seems fitting," Charles yawned, setting the now somewhat broken in pointe shoe down amongst the others, "We've not talked much about a name have we?"
"I suppose not, but maybe we ought to," she said, setting the pointe shoe she'd finished down with the rest, "It's not to be taken lightly. They'll be stuck with the name for the rest of their lives."
"Well, I shouldn't think there are too many ways to bung up the last name Carson," he said, "So I suppose we should decide one boy's name and one girl's name. Assuming we can agree."
"That sounds like a challenge if there ever was one…"
"Is there anyone you'd like to name a child after?" he ventured, "I know you weren't exactly close to your family, except for Becky of course."
Elsie sighed, "Rebecca would make for a nice middle name," she said, "If it's a girl."
"Do you think it would be too saccharine if we named her Clara? Since she'll be born either during or directly after the run of The Nutcracker? To a family that has, for better or worse, been entrenched in the ballet for most of their natural lives?"
"I rather like the name, actually. Nutcracker aside — it's very sweet. Clara Carson."
"Clara Rebecca Carson," he echoed, letting the name settle onto his tongue like the first sip of a new wine.
"Good God, you don't think it's possible we've managed to agree on the first name we thought of?" she laughed, "Either pregnancy has made me entirely submissive or you've become far too accommodating."
"I think we just have impeccable taste," he said, "What am I if not a man of style and show?"
"Right you are there," she said, resting her head on his shoulder, "And for a boy?"
Charles sighed, "Is it terribly selfish to suggest we name him Charlie?"
Elsie smirked, reaching over and taking his hand, "Not at all. It would have been my first suggestion."
"Really?" he said, clearly quite chuffed, "What did I ever do to deserve you?"
"Let's see if you still feel that way when we're changing nappies at two o'clock in the bloody morning!"
"You're sickling that foot, Mary!" Elsie said, squinting into the stage lights. Mary stopped short, squinting back at her, blinding by the footlights. Opening night was just a week away and everyone's nerves were already frayed. Mary's were never quite well-braided to begin with.
"With all do respect, Madam, I most certainly was not," Mary said, planting her hands firmly on her hips, her tutu springing out from either side, "I have not sickled my foot since I was —"
"Mary, I've not got time to listen to you defend yourself. You sickled your damn foot — even you are capable of an imperfection, dear, and it would do you well to accept that fact now and move on with your life."
Mary turned so that no one would see her rolling her eyes — but of course, Matthew Crawley, who had come on as the assistant choreographer, did. He eyed her mischievously, clearly wooed by her insubordination.
"Gentle, nice, pretty arms on those sissones, girls," Elsie said, "Alright, here we go. Again, from the top."
Settling into a nearby chair — hard-backed, much to her dismay, Elsie sighed, letting her eyes flutter closed for only a moment. She'd told the company about her pregnancy at the very last possible moment before tech rehearsals started. That would give her the entire run of the show to plan for her leave — which, she hoped wouldn't start until the final curtain in January, though if her haggard expression and teetering steps were any indication, it may well be sooner.
"You're off by a count on those fouettés, Mary! What's wrong, is it your knee again?" Elsie said, pressing her hands against her knees, letting them fall open a bit to accommodate her belly, which jutted forward as she did. No point in hiding it, gone were the days of delicately crossing her legs.
Mary exhaled, pushing a few strands of hair from her forehead, "It's not my knee — my knee is fine — it's just —" she exhaled sharply, looking off to the side of the studio toward Matthew, "It's nothing, Madam. Can we take it again?"
Elsie furrowed her brow at Mary, but nodded to William, "Again, from the beginning of that measure — Mary, go ahead and prepare — fourth position, demi plié."
The music started again and Elsie watched as Mary turned, her long legs creating beautiful lines, her arms helping to carry her round and round through each turn.
"Mary, darling, smile would you? You're the Sugar Plum Fairy, for God's sake! Think sweet, not sour."
The other girls tittered a bit and Mary faltered, stepping limply out of her turn. William paused in playing, but she turned, shooting him a look.
"Shall I start again?" he asked tentatively, his gaze moving between Mary's and Elsie's.
"Mary, take five. Let's bring in the corps, we'll run that again while you gather yourself up." Elsie said, pushing herself up somewhat unsteadily from her chair. Her back was going to ache no matter what she did, so she figured she may as well just stand — at least then she'd look likes was teaching the class and not watching it.
"Madam Hughes?"
Elsie turned to where Daisy stood somewhat shyly next to her. The girl may have been an adult in legal terms, but had the cherub face of a little girl and the petit frame to match. Even had she not been so talented, she'd've made the most suitable Clara.
"What is it dear?" Elsie said, reaching over to place a hand protectively on the girl's upper back, though barely taking her eyes away from the rest of the dancers – who leapt and spun through the studio as the music cascaded around them.
"I've got this — this cushion, I use it to elevate my ankle when it's bad —" she said quietly, lifting it up in front of her, pulling it tightly to her chest, "I was wondering if you — maybe you'd like to use it? When you're sitting down? That chair doesn't look all that comfortable."
Elsie blinked, turning to Daisy then, her eyebrows rising with bemused affection for the girl.
"Oh, lass, you're sweet," she laughed, "Don't you need it? You've been a real trooper dancing on that ankle —"
"Actually, I'm feeling quite a bit better," she beamed, "Ms Patmore has done wonders on it, she's the best physio in London, I'm certain of it now."
Elsie smiled knowingly, "That she is, love," she sighed, eyeing the cushion a moment, "Are you sure you could part with it — even temporarily?" she whispered, looking at Daisy a bit conspiratorially.
Daisy giggled, "You need it more than I do, Madam," she said, shoving it into Elsie's hands. She bit her lip a moment, then shuffled from one pointe-shoe'd foot to the other, "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"
Elsie sighed, settling down into the chair, positioning the cushion against the small of her back. She exhaled deeply — it was precisely what she'd needed.
"We want to be surprised," Elsie said, rolling her eyes slightly, "That seemed like a lovely notion six months ago but now I find myself wishing I knew what to expect."
"I'm sure you'll be a lovely mum," she said, "No matter if it's a boy or a girl — do you want them to dance, like you have?"
As if on cue, the baby rolled over and Elsie laughed, laying her hand on her belly, "I think they already are!"
"What is that?" Charles said, reaching over to pluck some oddity from her hair as they sat next to one another in bed. They were reading in tandem — he, reviewing the annual Christmas newsletter to be sent out to all the company's benefactors, she — one of many childcare books she'd devoured over the last six months. Outside snow fell softly; not a storm in earnest, no angry winds or ice pelting their bedroom window. Just the gentle curtain of white, big wet flakes — one of which, appeared, to be shimmering in her hair.
"What — it's not a bug, is it?" she cringed; and she'd've squirmed away, if she'd not lost the ability to squirm months ago.
"No it's —" plucking it from her soft tresses, he chuckled, "Potato flakes."
Elsie sighed, banging her head somewhat dramatically against the headboard, "Lord, will wonders never cease?"
"Well, now that we'll have a little one in tow all hope of escaping the seasonal allure of The Nutcracker Suite is gone." he laughed, kissing the side of her hair sweetly. He expected her to smile, give him a playful smack even for his cheek — but she only sat silently, tracing the spine of her book absently.
"Do you think we're doing the right thing?" she said, though she didn't raise her eyes to meet his.
"I'm not sure I follow…" he said, leaning forward a bit in an attempt to capture her gaze.
"Do you worry that maybe we're not going to be good parents? That we're too old or too jaded or …I don't know," she sighed, closing the book on her finger. He reached over and took it from her lap, sliding it out of her grasp and depositing it on his nightstand.
"Stage fright, that's all darling," he said, resting a hand on her belly, which was tucked up under the bedclothes with the rest of her. Nudging the comforter to one side, he splayed his palm and fingers along the taut curve, stroking it tenderly.
"I think it runs deeper than that," she said quietly, "Stage fright was always about how the audience would see me — this is — this is about how I'm going to see myself. As something other than a dancer, as a teacher," she looked up at him, her eyes damp, "I never thought about being a mother — not seriously, not intentionally — and now it's just happening. My entire life has been about control — dance was about knowing the steps and executing them flawlessly. And there's no choreography for motherhood and I don't even know where to begin. I don't know the vocabulary, I don't know — I don't know how to improvise," she said, laughing softly.
"What —and I do?" Charles countered, "Does anyone? We're two reasonably intelligent, kind-hearted human beings. I think we'll manage."
She sighed, covering his hand with hers, "That wasn't exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for," she said, wincing a bit as the baby gave her a rather swift kick.
"Good God, I really felt that one," he said, his eyebrows flaring a bit, "How do you get anything done with this little thing toiling around inside you all day?"
"It gets worse," she said, reaching down to lift up her nightgown, exposing her middle to him. She sighed, her belly heaving right along with her, and held up a finger — telling him to wait. He did, and he watched, and after a moment he saw the skin of her stomach stretch, almost a ripple across the surface — and he wasn't sure whether to cringe or squeal with boyish delight.
"Mesmerizing," he said, "Peculiarly so," he gently poked what may have been an elbow or foot, letting his hand settle on the spot where it thumped beneath his palm, "So very close and yet—so very far." he mused, running his thumb along the warm skin there.
"You do think we'll figure it out, though?" she asked, looking up at him from beneath her dark eyelashes.
"Yes, I do — and I say that with the utmost confidence," he said, leaning down to kiss her gently, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips still tenderly pressed to hers, "As for The Nutcracker, so long as Thomas lands all his tour en l'airs…its should be fair to middling."
She smacked him playfully, then looped her arms up around his neck, "Shut up and kiss me you old git."
The first real murmurs of labor started midway through the Mouse War and arrived at what Elsie suspected was near full intensity by the Waltz of the Flowers. She paused, gripping the tightly fastened rope of one of the flys as she stood in the wings, her low moans drowned out by the orchestra, thankfully.
She only looked up as Anna bounded off stage toward her, her face glistening with glitter, a bit of well-earned sweat. She was beaming, of course, having just danced her pas de deux, with just enough time to powder her pointe shoes before racing back on. She paused, though, when she caught site of her beloved mentor, bent over halfway to the floor.
"Madam?" she whispered, keeping one ear out for her cue, "Are you alright?"
Elsie waved her off, "Fine, fine. You — that was lovely, you — ah, on the grand jete, watch that you — ah, oh God," she winced, "Sorry, darling — on the—" she hissed, straightening her back, arching it forward slightly as she pressed her hands into the lower dip of it, "Oh Lord."
"Are you in labor?" Anna said, her voice rising high enough to get a warning glance from the stage manager. She looked at him impertinently, "Tell Mr Carson to come fetch her before she has this baby in the wings!" she said, reaching for Elsie's arm and tugging her along the length of the backstage.
"Anna, don't be daft, you'll miss your cue—"
Anna shook her head, "Thomas's solo goes on forever," she said, "I've got time. Come on!"
"I know you've never had children Anna but let me tell you this — one thing I cannot do, at this moment, is hurry anywhere." She paused her steps, gripping Anna's hand tightly, "Oh Christ what have I done to deserve this—"
"They certainly know how to make an entrance don't they?" Anna laughed, "Couldn't stand to be shown up by the performance!"
Elsie groaned, "Oh, with my luck they'll be flat footed as all hell and — fuck!"
"Elsie?"
They rounded the corner into the hall and saw Charles rushing toward them. He nodded graciously to Anna, "Thank you, love, I'll take it from here."
"Good luck," Anna said, hugging Elsie tentatively before running off down the hall.
"I know what they say about dancing through the pain, Els, but this is a little much—" Charles laughed, beaming at his wife, "Your waters haven't broken have they?"
She shook her head, "I don't think so but — ack, bloody hell!"
"I'll bring the car round—" he said, kissing her cheek before turning to head down the hall away from her.
"Charles?" she called after him, pressing her palm against the wall to steady herself.
He turned, his eyes asking.
"Fetch Beryl too," she said, "In case you pass out; she's your understudy."
"It's almost like you're doing the dreaded stands in Swan Lake," Beryl laughed, threading her arm behind Elsie's waist, urging her to take a step forward. Her labor had progressed, but the nurse thought if she did a bit of walking it would ease the baby into a better position. Elsie had protested, and even as she and Beryl walked the hall, she would stop as each contraction grabbed her, gripping the hall's railing as though it were a barre.
Standing there now, completely still, sweat glistening at her temples, she did resemble her former self: a younger dancer on the cusp of realizing her greatness on a brightly lit stage.
"I'd rather do bloody stands in the corps for the rest of my life than suffer this for one more minute," Elsie groaned, leaning her head against the wall in defeat.
Beryl chuckled, "I know. C'mon love. Let's go back to your bed. Ol' Mr Carson's probably worrying after you."
"Have you had any word from the stage manager — Mr Molesley, was it? I'm hoping everything went off alright at curtain —"
"Oh Elsie," Beryl laughed, helping her up onto the bed, "They're all fine.Everyone danced beautifully. No fatal wounds. Daisy was marvelous."
Elsie exhaled smoothly, "Was Mary ahead of the music on those pique turns?"
"Not a toe ahead of measure." Beryl said, rubbing Elsie's back reassuringly.
"Where's Charles gone off to?" Elsie said wistfully, pressing a hand to the side of her belly.
"I'm here, pet," he said, stepping into the room no sooner than she'd beckoned him, "I only stole away for a cup of tea— which I am remiss to say I did not find." He settled onto the bed next to her, his hand taking the place of Beryl's on the small of his wife's back.
"I don't want to do this," Elsie moaned, pressing her head against his chest, "Take me home. Let's just — let's just pretend it never happened."
Charles laughed, "I think we're beyond that, darling," he said, pressing his hand more firmly against her back. The counter pressure helped, though not much.
"I think I ought to stand up again," she grimaced, "I feel worse sitting down," she eyed Beryl pathetically, "Not that I feel great standing but — ack!"
Easing her up standing, she balanced against Charles' frame — the beginning of a pas de deux neither of them knew the choreography for.
"Try to think happy thoughts," Charles said weakly. Beryl gave him a slap on the head, "Ow! What was that bloody for?"
"Being a complete moron," she said, but she was smiling. All three of them abounded with their own brand of nervous energy.
"Oh, I don't want to do this — please, just take me home, Charles. I can't —"
"Bloody hell, Els! You've danced on broken toes — it can't be so bad as all —"
"Fuckkkk," she groaned, gripping Charles' forearm until her nails dug into his skin, nearly drawing blood. Charles yelped and she whimpered apologetically.
Beryl plopped herself down in a nearby chair, "Don't you remember La Sylphide?" she said, her voice low and nostalgic, "You fractured two toes, danced an entire matinee, then turned around and danced the evening performance without missing a step,"
Charles blinked, "I don't remember that —"
Elsie sighed, closing her eyes, "I think it was before you came on," she said through gritted teeth, "I was young and stupid — I'd never let my girls—oh sweet lord, take me now!"
Beryl gave Charles a nervous glance, "You love La Sylphide, don't you Els?" she said, rubbing her back tentatively, "What Scot doesn't, aye?"
Elsie let her head loll to the side, looking up at her in agony, "If you want a bloody review read the Guardian," she moaned.
"Don't you remember that lovely lad, Joseph Burns? He danced the lead and you had that lovely pas de deux,"
Elsie laughed, throwing her head back slightly, "Oh we had more than a few lovely little "pas de duexs"," she threw Charles a look, "Remember, this wasbefore you, darling."
He wrapped his arms around her waist, settling his hands on the curve of her belly, "Come on, darling, third position — plié!"
"I am going to smack you," she growled, letting her head fall back listlessly against his chest.
"Actually, that's not a terrible idea —"
They all turned to see Dr. Clarkson, the OBGYN, standing in the doorway.
"The plié, not the smacking. So, Elsie, did you manage to make it to intermission at least?" he said, unraveling his stethoscope from around his neck.
Elsie hissed, gritting her teeth. Charles looked up at Dr. Clarkson helplessly.
"I wasn't kidding — she should change position as much as she can. Many women deliver in more of a squatting position — gravity often helps."
"If I plié I will never get up again," she said, pressing her hands over Charles' against her belly, her head falling forward a bit. She began to sway, almost to a rhythm only she could hear.
"You're in fine fettle," Dr. Clarkson said, lowering himself into a nearby chair, "All those years dancing have given you marvelous core strength, which will be an asset to you in this venture."
"A swift blow to the head would be an asset right now," she fussed, pressing her heels into the floor, "Or a — sip of belladonna."
"Well, hop up." Dr. Clarkson laughed, "Let's see how close you are — you've been teetering around a bit?"
Charles and Beryl eased her back onto the bed, settling her in which was mostly futile, as there was nothing settled about her. Dr Clarkson examined her and she cursed him quietly, looking over to where Beryl was faffing about with her phone.
"If you take a picture and put it on your bloody Facebook I will kill you," she said, gritting her teeth. Beryl laughed.
"I'm not gonna take your damn picture, Elsie, calm down. I thought we could use a little mood music," she tapped her screen and the overture from La Sylphide filled the small room.
"Oh, that's lovely," Charles said thoughtfully, "I wish I'd been around to see you dance it, Elsie. I'm sure you were divine."
Elsie shrugged, "I did alright, didn't I Beryl?" she asked wistfully, anything to distract herself from the pain.
"You were lovely. Incomparable, I believe, was the word they used?"
"Those toes never healed properly," she mused, mustering up a small laugh, "Charles has seen them — one's all crooked."
He nodded, "It's true. A battle wound, I suppose."
"Well, Elsie, you're nearly ready to start pushing," Dr. Clarkson said, and for a moment everyone startled. It was as though they'd forgotten he was in the room at all.
"I'm not bloody well ready for anything," she said, gripping the bedsheets as she looked up at Charles pleadingly, "I really don't want to do this, darling."
Charles chuckled, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it gently, "I know, but you must. And you will." He looked up at Dr. Clarkson for reassurance — it would all be alright, wouldn't it?
"Why don't you go round and help her sit up," Dr. Clarkson said, nodding to Charles. Then he turned to Beryl, "And if you would — stand here, you can help steady her legs."
"Haven't I been doing that for the last twenty years?" Beryl laughed, petting Elsie's knee affectionately.
"Somehow I don't think this bodily injury will not be mended with ice and elevation," Elsie said, managing a laugh before she gripped the sheets again, her head lolling back against Charles' chest. He'd settled himself behind her and, taking in his vantage point, grew suddenly concerned that he may faint.
"Like sailing, Mr Carson," Dr. Clarkson said, snapping on his rubber gloves, "If you're feeling a bit weekly, look toward the horizon," he said, gesturing behind him to a painting of the open sea.
"Ohh fuck," Elsie hissed, digging her heels into the bed, "Of all the daffy ideas we've had, Charles, this was the absolute worst."
Charles smiled, kissing her cheek, "Yes, but when we meet this little person it will all be rosy and you'll forget how miserable this part was," he looked up at Dr. Clarkson, "Isn't that right?"
"Well, we're about to find out," he said, reaching up to press his hand against Elsie's knee, opening them a bit wider, "Alright — I want you to take a few good, deep breaths, then sit up and push — hard. Bear down as hard as you can —"
Elsie closed her eyes a moment, trying to stave off the tears that had been aching in them for hours. She felt a final, resolute little flop in her belly and she knew there would be absolutely no turning back now. She felt the warmth of Charles behind her, pressing against her back, his breath on her neck. A moment of familiarity before everything was to change.
"I love you," he said quietly, "I'm terribly sorry I've done this to you — but I love you."
She whimpered, struggling to sit up — Dr. Clarkson nodded and began to count. She pushed, and realized the moment she'd begun that her body already knew precisely what to do. She only needed to give in and let it.
When she was a young dancer she'd learned that there was always a point in rehearsals where her body could take over. Where she knew the steps, knew the rhythm of the music, knew exactly what to do and her muscles remembered, anticipated — suddenly she just danced.
And it was this thought that captured her as she brought her child into the world. How quickly her body understood, and took to the task as though it could hear music she could not, how if she only remained aware she could glide through the pulse of pain, she could nearly curl herself around it.
"You're doing marvelously," Dr. Clarkson said, reaching up to gently press against her belly, "Got quite a head of hair, this one does," he said, "Now, the head will be out on the next push — it might hurt considerably more but don'tstop pushing — alright?"
Elsie nodded, gripping the sleeves of Charles' shirt.
"That's it, nicely done."
"Oh bloody hell!" Elsie cried. Beryl gave her thigh a reassuring pat, tears brimming her eyes.
"C'mon Daddy, have a look," she said, smacking Charles' forearm. He blinked, his face blanching.
"I'm not sure I should—"
"That's it — alright, ease up just a bit. Good. Take a breath — then we'll have a go at the shoulders. After that, it'll be over."
"C'mon Charlie Carson, this is it. The only chance you'll ever have to see this glorious moment," Beryl said softly, imploring him. She gave her arm to him so that he could lean forward without disrupting Elsie too much — who was so intently focused that she hardly noticed the conversation happening around her, nor how he leaned his head forward, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"Oh, good Christ, Beryl —I can't," he winced, but he did manage to keep one eye open.
"Remember the horizon," Dr. Clarkson said, pulling himself a bit closer to the bed so that he might brace himself to ease the baby out on the next contraction.
"Charles," Elsie breathed, trying to catch her breath, "Beryl's right you know — you'll never see it again."
He studied her face a moment, the faintest sparkle returning to her gaze, and he nodded, kissing her cheek and peeking over her shoulder.
"Are you ready to meet the newest Carson?" Dr. Clarkson said, flicking his gaze up to them.
"Hughes-Carson," Elsie sputtered, inching herself up higher on her elbows and blowing a strand of hair from her face somewhat impetuously. A newfound strength and relief in sight, she bore down again — with Dr. Clarkson's hands to help, she exhaled sharply at the sensation of something being pulled from her. Back to one heartbeat within her instead of two beating in time.
"Ach! Oh look, oh goodness," Beryl cried, reaching up to wipe the tears fro her eyes, "Oh it's —"
"Charles—did you see?" Elsie panted, craning her neck to look at his face.
He hadn't taken a breath, and finally as he struggled to fight back tears himself, he leaned down and kissed her cheek, taking her head between his hands and burying his face in her damp hair.
"Why isn't she crying?" Beryl said, leaving the bedside and hovering over where the nurse's were suctioning the baby's mouth.
"She will," Dr. Clarkson said, "They're just going to give her a little help starting off —"
"She?" Charles said, his ears perked up, "It's a girl?" he turned, looking down at Elsie, "It's a girl."
Elsie was about to speak when a tiny mewl rang out from across the room, the sweetest sound any of them had ever heard.
"Ten fingers, ten toes, a decent pair of lungs — and a full head of hair," Dr. Clarkson laughed, placing the baby on Elsie's middle, "The littlest Carson."
"God — you've done it. We've done it. She's here. Look, she's here, Elsie." Charles marveled, pressing his finger against the baby's palm. She grasped it immediately, struggling to open her eyes wide enough to take them in, staring so sweetly down at her.
After, when the nurses had gone on to their next patient, Dr Clarkson returned to his office and Beryl collapsed onto the couch for a nap, Charles and Elsie huddled together on the hospital bed, gazing down at their daughter, who was contentedly nursing.
"I love you," Elsie said quietly, taking her eyes off her daughter for only a moment, only long enough to look at him. He stroked her hair gently, kissing the side of her head.
"Oh well darling— I love you too," he said, laughing a bit, how overwhelmed he was by joy, drunk on it nearly. His delight then turned into a well-earned yawn.
"I never believed anything at all could be natural to me," she said, softly stroking the baby's cheek as she suckled, "I worked for years to perfect my dancing, my teaching," she flicked her gaze up at him lovingly, "And Lord knows that we've had our work to do…"
He nodded, "But this —?"
Elsie shrugged, letting her head settle against his chest, "I'm not as afraid now,"
"No?"
"No," she said, tucking the baby's tiny foot back beneath her swaddling, "Because I've got a partner who I trust — and who I know will never let me fall."
"I'll keep you steady," he said, closing his eyes, the room around them quiet save for the tiny suckling noises of their baby at Elsie's breast and Beryl's light snores from across the room. "It's going to be a completely different life,"
"Yes," Elsie said, cooing at the baby in her arms, whose eyes were heavy and ready for sleep, "—but we'll face it together."