Here you go, late (as always) the last chapter! It has been a wonderful and at times frustrating journey, but thank you for coming on it with me and I am sure the muse will bite again soon, so keep looking. Thank you for all your kind reviews and words of encouragement, they mean so much to me. Pips

Chapter Nineteen

About a year Later

The humming of the crowd carried through the thin partition walls, excitement in the air along with festive cheer. I sat in the excruciatingly small changing room, one that made my little closet at the opera house look palatial and applied my makeup, smoothing the pancake over my face, ringing my eyes in kohl and enhancing my features with rouge and lipstick.

The noise set my stomach rolling and heaving, nausea never far off and I closed my eyes, seeking a small quiet place in my mind, hoping to ease the constant discomfort

"Ali?" My husband's voice interrupted my thoughts and I opened my lids to see him standing next to me, a frown marring his smooth forehead. He was dressed in a DJ, suitable for the occasion and I couldn't help but think how handsome he looked. "Are you all right?" Concern marked his voice as he took my clammy palm into his large hand and gently ran the knuckles of his other down the side of my face.

"I'm fine, just a few nerves, that's all." I smiled up at him reassuringly.

"I didn't think Christine de Theale suffered from nerves, especially when dancing to an audience of a couple of hundred in a tin pot auditorium." He smiled to show the sarcasm of his words were meant in jest, after all it had been his idea.

"Christine de Theale doesn't suffer from nerves," I replied, squeezing his hand. "But she doesn't usually put in an appearance until the curtain goes up. Right now it's just me and my knees are shaking!" It was a slight exaggeration, but all the larger to hide my rolling stomach behind.

"Well, that makes two of us then," he said with a smile. "I can barely walk my knees are knocking so badly. I will be adding extra sound to the timpani. Well, I guess I had better go and take my place, I just came to wish you luck darling.

"Luck," I beamed up at him, avoiding the word good in my wishes, far too steeped in theatre superstition to utter it before curtain up.

"Luck Ali," He said bending over and kissing me on the lips. "I love you Mrs St. John." And with a further squeeze of my hand he was gone.

I sighed at my reflection and continued to apply my makeup. With only fifteen minutes before the start I was running late, having been too tired to start warming up as early as I should have. Instead, I pushed my whole routine back by half an hour, knowing from past experience that it was not worth skimping on stretching and rehearsal before going on stage. Much better to be slightly rushed at the end.

I finished applying my make up and then stuck my head out the door, looking for the wardrobe mistress to help me into my elaborate tutu that I would be wearing for the performance. Just as I called out a wave of nausea pushed through me and I found myself gagging with the need to be ill. I pulled my head back inside the broom closet of a dressing room and forcing my head between my knees took a few deep breaths. There was nothing in my stomach to be sick on and I knew it was only temporary, nothing would last.

In truth, this performance had come at a bad time. What had started out as a small private show for my parents-in-law and a few of their friends, had grown to a larger audience of WI members and their families as a local fundraising event. As word had spread that the home-grown talent of Eric St. John would be playing excerpts of his critically acclaimed ballet and his wife and her partner from the Royal Ballet would be dancing, ticket sales became uncontrollable.

In fear that the small Village Hall where we had planned to hold it; would become overcrowded and dangerous, a deal was struck that we could use the larger and more professional facilities of the local arts centre. Suddenly an evening of fun and dancing for twenty people had become a professional event relying on the staff and orchestra of the theatre

Eric was playing the piano in the orchestra, grinding his teeth to keep his comments at bay regarding their ability and I was dancing a few of the pieces from the ballet along with Eduardo. In addition we were performing the Pas de Deux from Swan Lake and Romeo and Juliet. It was quite a full evening, requiring a lot of energy and a huge degree of fitness.

My husband was quite worried about the intensity of it all and was cross with himself, his parents and the Women's Institute for letting it all get so out of hand. Knowing that this was a mixture of nerves and worry, I knew that this wasn't the right time to tell him that it was not stage nerves I was suffering from. In fact I was eight weeks pregnant!

God, I was so worried about Ali. When I took her hand it was cold and clammy, despite the two hours of warming up she had just finished. There was a look of tiredness and a hint of fear in her eyes that sent jitters up my spine. Part of me wanted to go out front and tell the audience that it was all off, but I knew I couldn't do it.

Damn Lady whatever her name was for being unable to keep her mouth shut about the coup her local branch had won regarding the event to beat all events in the history of the WI. Instead, what should have been a light hearted and fun evening had become a marathon of dancing for Ali and Eduardo and a nightmare for me as I watched my beloved dancing her heart out on a substandard; tiny stage.

At least she had Eduardo to partner her, who was so thoughtful and caring when it came to her needs on stage. They had developed a perfect partnership, since James had upped and left to join the San Francisco ballet and I thought it was wonderful. Ali had all the friendship and support that she needed to carry out her job and I didn't have to worry about her partner hitting on her. He usually tried out his talents on me.

My thoughts were disturbed by the pressure of someone pulling on my carefully pressed trouser leg and I looked down to see the blonde curls and toothy grin of Tess. "Up, up, Daddy up," she demanded, holding her chubby arms in the air. I couldn't resist and lifted her into my arms, balancing her on my hip, hoping her little black patent shoes would not leave marks on my dinner jacket and trousers.

"Where are Granny and Grandpa?" I asked her, looking around for my parents, she had obviously briefly escaped my mother's eagle eye.

"Mummy's room," she explained, inserting her finger into her mouth and leaning her head on my shoulder. Her absolute love and trust settled me slightly and a smile escaped my lips, as I planted a kiss on her forehead.

She acted as if there was never any doubt in her mind that I was her father and Ali and I had only been married a few months when she dubbed me so. Even now the lisped words could bring a tear to my eye.

Rocking Tess in my arms slightly, I allowed my memories to wander back to the wonderful day when I made Ali my wife. We had not waited long after our engagement and a cold winter weekend at the beginning of February had seen us exchanging our vows in the old Norman church in Warlington.

It had been a small congregation and my first chance to meet her family amongst the wedding guests, realising why they did not hold close ties to her heart. Her step mother was cold and offish, her father disinterested and her brother barely took time off from his international calls to come inside and watch the service, too tied up with the American stock market. Even her mother who was very kind and helpful seemed to be distant with her granddaughter. I realised that Ali's true family was present in the assorted members of the ballet who had been able to wangle a day off from work to come as guests.

We were a small party of fifty and were able to hold a simple reception at The Old Vicarage, before entrusting Tess to my parents care and grabbing a heavenly three days honeymoon in a glorious old hotel, where we barely left the bedroom. Four days after we were married, Ali was back at the opera house dancing.

The very briefness of our wedding did not bother either of us. We were happy to be together as a family, once again united and living in our flat in London. Immediately Ali was thrust into the choreography for 'Belle and the Prince' as someone had seen fit to call my ballet. She came in exhausted every evening having spent several hours of each day creating and practicing the steps that were being put together. It took four long months for it to be ready.

I would never forget the night when it was first performed, seeing my darling wife dancing a role I never believed would exist outside my head and my dreams. And the reviews the next day gushed heaped praise on both my composing and Ali's dancing. We were dubbed as the most talented couple in Britain.

And now here we were about to perform one of the most desired works in the ballet repertoire, that is if my wife didn't faint before she even reached the stage. I craned my neck, looking for any sign of my parents, for it was high time I went and waited in the wings to take my position at the carefully tuned piano. There was once piece in the scenes that was just me and Ali, a love poem in the middle of the pomp and circumstance and I could not bare to play it tonight if I had to hide even the slightest flatness in it's tone.

"Ah, there you are," my Mother's capable voice floated over the backstage hum towards me. "I thought you might have Tess with you. Come to Granny darling." My daughter, the turncoat she was took one look at her adopted Grandmother and practically leaped out of my arms and into hers. There seemed to be no loyalty there! "Right, well Ali is ready, I guess we had better go and take our seats. Lots of luck darling." Mum reached up and patted my cheek with her spare hand, slightly smearing the covering of makeup that Ali had carefully applied earlier.

Whilst I no longer had to wear the mask anymore and my features had healed to a decent degree there was still a certain rawness to the skin. Thankfully my wife's talents included applying makeup and before any huge formal affair, she would take her thick foundation and carefully blend and smooth it into my own skin, so you could not tell the trauma I had been through.

"Wait Mum," I grabbed her hand as she turned to leave.

"Yes darling?"

"Do you think Ali is okay? Do you think she looks well?" I blurted out, what I had seen earlier concerning me. My Mother simply smiled enigmatically and blew me a little kiss.

"She looked wonderful," she said, turning with a wave and heading off to the front of house. I stood there stunned, mulling over her enigmatic reply, too nervous to understand it's meaning and too jittery to sit still and be calm.

"Um, Mr St. John?" the stage manager came up to me. "We need you at Orchestra pit wings, the conductor is waiting for you."

I briefly nodded and turned to follow him, glancing back at the wings one last time. I was rewarded by the sight of my wife approaching the very spot where I had just left; her elaborate bead encrusted tutu on, a sweater draped over her shoulders and a pair of stripy legwarmers over her tights and shoes. She ground her feet in the tray of rosin and scuffed her shoes on the floor slightly, testing their grip. Seeing her involved in her usual little rituals settled me a bit. As she said Christine de Theale had taken over.

I wished the same could be said for me, for I was more jittery then on my wedding night and the effusive applause that marked my entrance had my heart racing. I bowed my thanks slightly before sitting down at the piano, my gaze taking in the keys before me. The house lights went down and the audience fell into hushed silence, only a few squeaks from children and the rustle of sweet wrappers betraying their presence.

I caught the conductor's eye and nodded watching as he lifted his baton and cued the strings in. And then I let my unconscious mind take over, put my fingers on the keys and started to play.

Annoyingly, the piano was positioned in the orchestra pit so that I could not see the television screens that relayed the performance to the conductor. All that I had as a guide to the success of the ballet was the rhythmic metronomic thump of the dancers feet and the cheer of the audience as pieces of dancing ended.

It was a full hour later that I could be excused as 'Belle' had ended and we were currently taking an interval. I could watch the shorter second half from backstage, this time cheering Ali on.

She shone in this classy display of work and I found myself wondering, once again how it was possible that she languished in the corps for so long. I had long ago come to the conclusion that James had held her back, his style and partnering hampering her natural ability. Whatever the reason she now shone, destined to go down as one of the famous ballerinas of her time.

It was again a triumph and the applause of the audience was hugely enthusiastic as she danced off stage right. I happened to be standing stage left and had no time to go and join her, the stage manager using the opportunity to fuss over my appearance and fill me in on taking my bow. The clapping rose a decibel in sound as I walked on, concentrating on the footlights as I walked to downstage centre as directed, took my bow from the waist and then walked backwards and slightly to the right, holding out my arm to indicate the arrival of the main couple.

She danced on to stage, her hand in Eduardo's her radiant smile hiding the absolute exhaustion she felt. I could see the tremble in her legs, the slight droop of her perfect posture. If my applause had been enthusiastic, the crowd then went wild. Flowers rained down and the air was filled with cries of 'Brava' and cheering. I could not help myself, but scooped one of the roses off the floor and presented it to her, gaining even more vocal support from the audience.

Finally after five curtain calls we finished and Ali drooped against me in exhaustion, resting her sweaty head against my shoulder. "You were wonderful darling" I whispered in her ear, kissing the sensitive skin just by her ear, seeking a tender moment amid the hustle of backstage.

She raised her head and I was taken aback by the wide eyed fear that filled her eyes. "Eric," she said shakily. "I need to go to hospital!"

I had felt the warmth between my legs as I had finished dancing. My female intuition warning me that something was not right and in the few moments between my final movements and taking my curtsey I grabbed a peak under the floating dress I was wearing. I could see the red stain between my legs, not too large but spreading and I was sure it could only mean one thing – I was loosing the baby! My stubborn pride – I should have told Eric and he would have cancelled the whole event in the blink of an eye. I had danced at eight weeks pregnant with Tess, but it had not been as strenuous as tonight.

I leant back in the car seat, watching the dim winter light fade into darkness; the street lights flashing by in a ribbon of neon yellow and orange. Eric drove the car as fast as he dared; tight-jawed, his eyes narrowed against oncoming headlights, his face bleached of colour in the gloom. He was angry, I could tell in the way that he gripped the steering wheel, barely glancing in my direction. I was too tired and scared to worry about his anger though. I knew it wasn't at me, but at the situation.

I had briefly explained what was happening to me when suddenly I found my costume ripped off me, my shoes untied and I was bundled into my street clothes and into the car. No time allowed to remove my makeup or have a shower and so I sat there with my hair pulled back in a formal bun; my face heavily made up and sweat pouring off my body. Despite the heat I was shaking; from tiredness, from fear – I didn't know.

I could feel the life slipping out of me, dying in it's own way and the vast sadness that could only rise from such misfortune. We spun into the hospital grounds and Eric pulled up outside A&E, racing around and picking me up from the seat, carrying me into the department in his arms.

Such a heaving mass of humanity only seems to exist at airports and hospitals as was the case here. The waiting area over flowed with people waiting for help, yet Eric strode straight up to the desk. All I could do was bury my head into his chest in fear and shame for having made him come here.

"My wife is miscarrying," he bit out in clipped tones when the receptionist asked him what was wrong. "And I would appreciate a wheelchair for her, she is in too much pain to walk!" One seemed to magically appear by his side and he gently lowered me into it before allowing the triage nurse near. She bent over me with a kindly smile, blinking slightly at my gaudy makeup.

"Are you bleeding honey," she said kindly and slowly. I simply nodded in affirmation, too tired and worried to be more descriptive. "And when did you first notice it?"

"About half an hour ago," I whispered, "when I came off stage".

"How many weeks do you think you are?"

"Eight." She stood up, her smile fixed. "We need to get you scanned. I will get a porter to take you over to X-ray and we can do an ultrasound. Meanwhile, let's get you on to a trolley and you can lie down. You look tired."

Eric held my hand as I was pushed off to a cubicle, helping me gently onto the bed, where I lay my eyes closed, unable to communicate and explain. "How long have you known Ali?" he asked gruffly when we were finally alone again.

"About three weeks," my lip trembled as I confessed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but I knew you would cancel the gala and your parents were so looking forward to it and it could have been all right. I danced with Tess until I was fifteen weeks pregnant! I was going to tell you tonight and then it would be Christmas and perfect and…" Tears ran down my cheeks, riddled with mascara and kohl leaving dark tracks on my face.

"Hush, hush," Eric stood by me, holding my hand and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Darling, don't worry, it cannot be good for you. We need to find out what is going on. I am sure it won't be long." I nodded, and with a wince against the harsh halogen light, closed my eyes. "Do you have a headache? Do you want me to take your hair down?"

I nodded again, the task of talking too difficult as my emotions were clogged with tears that trembled on my lashes and continued to stream down my cheeks. I felt him gently pull the pins out that held my tight bun in place and the easing of pressure as it gradually fell down, helped as my husband ran his hands through it, trying to restore some semblance of normality to the stiff waves. "Do you have a mirror?" I whispered, scared that my appearance was abnormal.

"No," he gave a little snort of laughter as he pocketed the pile of hairgrips that sat on the edge of the narrow bed. "I am always amazed at how many of these are in your head!" I smiled wanly and in the absence of a reflective surface reached up to my eye and pulled away the thick black lashes that were glued to my own eyelid, handing them one at a time to Eric to put with the hairgrips

There was no time to do anything else to restore my appearance when the curtain opened and a harassed doctor strode in, followed by a nurse. I was immediately glad to see it was a woman, hoping that there would be solidarity in our gender and with this understanding. "Mrs St. John?" she asked in brisk voice that almost hid here tiredness.

"Yes," my lips were dry and parched as I answer, dehydrated from dancing and further exacerbated by my bout of tears.

"I am Dr FieldingYou say you are miscarrying." Not a question, but a statement.

"Yes."

"And you are eight weeks pregnant." I nodded. "And when did you first notice bleeding?"

"About an hour ago, when I came off stage?"

"Off stage?" The nurse looked up with a glimpse of interest in her eyes, hoping that the routine of questions would be a little more interesting.

"My wife is a ballet dancer," Eric explained, realising that I was not forthcoming with the facts. "You may have heard of her as Christine de Theale." He paused waiting for affirmation, which came as a sharp nod and a slight softening of the Dr. Fielding's mouth, almost a smile. In contrast the nurse beamed her recognition.

"I take it you were performing then when you noticed bleeding?" I nodded again, feeling like a helpless mute. She smiled generously for the first time. "Mrs St. John, or would you prefer to be referred to as Ms de Theale?"

"No St. John is fine."

"Well then, over fifty percent of pregnancies naturally terminate in the first trimester. I cannot say that dancing would or would not exacerbate this. It is very likely that if you miscarry it could happen just as easily if you were lying in bed doing nothing. Do you understand? Please don't feel that you might have bought this on by what you were doing." Her words were meant to be kind, but she delivered them in a lecturing tone. I wasn't going to get sympathy from this quarter.

"I danced until I was fourteen weeks with my first child," I mentioned shyly.

"And I take it she is fine?"

"If you can call a reluctance to go to bed and a desire to wear her mother's shoes fine," Eric interjected with a note of humour that went ignored.

"Let me feel your stomach and see how things are going there then and we will see what we can do," the Dr. Fielding suggested briskly, gesturing for the nurse to assist. With Eric's help I pushed down the waist of my trousers and tights, realising with a glance down that the bleeding seemed to have stopped for the moment.

Her fingers were long and cool where they touched my warm skin and I gave a little gasp at the difference in temperature. She manipulated the slight bulge in my stomach, her forehead contracting in a frown. "And you said you were eight weeks?"

"Yes, I think so. Well had a little bleeding at eight weeks which I guess was my last period."

"And was it lighter then usual?" She continued to gently probe at my stomach, which from the angle I was lying at had a noticeably rounded look to it, different from it's usual flat planes.

"Actually yes, it was rather strange as it started and bled slightly for a day and then spotted for another couple of days and then stopped. But then I have never had very normal periods. None of us dancers do. I've been told it's because of what we put our bodies through."

"Well sometimes ultra fit people do loose their periods, or they become very light." Dr. Fielding mused slightly, standing up and looking at me, still with a frown. "Can you remember when you had your period before your last one?"

"Um, gosh." I looked to Eric for help, not quite sure if he could offer any.

"You had it when we went to dinner with your father that time," he offered quietly. "That was the end of September."

"Yes," I confirmed this looking at the nurse with a smile, desperate now for some sweet tea and sympathy. She simply nodded.

"I would like to send you for an ultrasound, see what is going on," she said. "I will just see if there is anyone to take you down. Just lie here quietly Mrs St. John." And with that comment she strode out the cubicle, leaving us alone with the nurse.

She smiled at me kindly. "Let me make you more comfortable there." I finished removing my trousers and tights, wincing at the sight of the blood stained gusset. "I can get you a pair of disposable ones," she said with a slight smile. "They crinkle though. Right I will be back with some and find out when we can take you for a scan.

Ten minutes later I was lying on the bed wearing nothing but my top and a pair of unattractive paper knickers. It was like giving birth all over again. Eric sat silently next to my bed, half-heartedly pushing back the cuticles on the nails of my right hand that he held. To wait was the cruellest punishment I could be given and yet there was nothing else to do.

I hadn't cooled down properly and I could feel the muscles cramping in my legs and feet, the tendons contracting up needing to be stretched out and cooled down. Normally I would do a few plies and then shower before heading to the nearest bath after a show. Now all I could do was lie there and grit my teeth, wiggle my toes slightly and pray.

It was another fourty-five minutes before I was finally taken up to x-ray, lying in the darkened room, gasping as the cold gel was massaged over my stomach and the scanner pressed against my flesh.

"Here you go!" The small grainy picture was turned to face us and as I saw the picture on the screen I let out a small gasp of surprise and delight. There was a very clear picture of a baby currently kicking it's legs and sucking it's thumb.

"Is it all right? Is it still there? Will it stay there?" I had not expected to see a baby on the screen, thought that their desire to scan me was to be sure that I had been accurate with my miscarriage and to see if I needed a dreaded clean. Instead the embryo; my baby, was clearly in front of my eyes.

"Absolutely fine, it looks like it dancing!" The radiographer smiled at me. "From what I hear just like it's Mother. You are about thirteen weeks you know, so you shouldn't miscarry too easily."

"Thirteen weeks!" I shook my head. "No, eight! At least I think so."

"Well, all the measurements are putting this embryo at twelve to thirteen weeks Mrs St. John, so either you are carrying a very huge child or you have your dates wrong!"

"Oh." I turned to Eric with confusion but stopped stunned at the look of awe in his eyes as he gazed at the picture.

"It's going to be fine Ali. You and our baby! You are going to be just fine!" His emotions got the better of him and in the dim light of the room I saw the tears that welled up over his eyes and spilt down his cheeks!

If someone had told me two years ago that I would be happily married with a child that I loved as mine and another on the way, I think I would have proclaimed them mad, or maybe hit them. Possibly both if it had been Dev making the prediction!

I sat there later that evening at my wife's side. She lay in bed, not for medical reasons, just sheer exhaustion as I stroked her hair, humming various melodies to her that were winding themselves around each other and trying to arrange themselves into a composition in my head.

"We forgot to ask what sex it is?" I suddenly broke the silence. All that I got was a low lazy giggle from Ali.

"It's too early to tell yet darling. That isn't for another month and a half. Are we going to ask?"

"Hmm. Yes, I think so. I want another girl, especially if she is like you and Tess. Or maybe a boy to balance out the females. Do you know, I don't actually mind, it is just amazing the fact that it is ours!"

"Mmm." Ali didn't reply, but I could almost hear her brain working, querying and questioning. "Eric?"

"Yes my love?"

"This new baby, it won't make you love Tess less will it? I mean I know she isn't your daughter by blood, but she doesn't know that and I don't want her to feel left out in any way."

"What?" I sat up from my reclining position and looked at her, her eyes wide and serious in the dim light of the room. "Ali, my darling darling Ali, how could I love Tess any less? Or you. If it wasn't for the both of you I would never have had a life after what happened, you both made it all possible. I love this baby as it is a sibling for Teresa and a child for us and I love you for making it with me, loving it, loving me and loving our first child." I bent forward and kissed her on the lips. "And that's the truth Ali St. John."