"Once again, ladies! And… tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, arabesque… Stay pulled up, Margaret… Assemblé, sous-sus… Lift your elbows, rounded arms… Piqué, piqué… Point those feet, Margaret!"
Two sharp raps of a cane silenced the piano. All the girls immediately turned to Madame Thornton, eyes cast down.
"Disgraceful! Is that how they trained you in Paris? Did you dance on the Palais Garnier stage with such saggy arms and floppy feet?"
Margaret's cheeks burned with embarrassment. The years out of class had taken more of a toll on her dancing than she had expected. From the first set of pliés she knew she had made a very poor showing in this morning's class.
"No, Madame." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
"And yet you think you may dance on the Milton Opera stage with such poor form? I have built this ballet corps from the ground up. London has nothing of this caliber. My company is the best in England. My girls are the most superior dancers in this country. And you think your performance today should earn you a place in my company?"
Margaret swallowed. She needed this position. She had nowhere else to go. "Please, Madame… I can do much better… I will recover my strength. I will train very hard."
Madame Thornton pursed her lips, giving Margaret a cold stare. "You have two weeks. You will show me dancing fit to grace my stage or you will not dance in my corps."
"Yes, Madame. Thank you." Margaret bowed her head, relieved tears stinging her eyes. She was determined to show Madame she deserved to be in the company.
Another tap of Madame's cane prompted the pianist to begin playing the révérence. Margaret followed the lead of the other girls, her aching muscles shaking as she sank into the deep curtsy to their teacher.
Madame strode out of the rehearsal studio without a backward glance. As soon as she stepped out the door a collective sigh could be heard from the dancers. Elegant postures instantly relaxed into slouches, and girls began to drop to the floor, stretching sore and tired muscles.
Margaret stood frozen in place, feeling bereft of all energy. She was hesitant to sit down, fearful her exhausted legs would not support her to rise again.
"Well, you certainly got the worst of it this morning." Bessy appeared at Margaret's side, her expression sympathetic. "But don't worry, you weren't as bad as all that."
Margaret huffed out an unamused laugh. "Oh, really? I think Madame might have a different opinion."
"No, it's true." Charlotte joined the pair, Emily following behind. "Madame was giving you a hard time. You're certainly out of practice, but it's easy to see you have good technique and are well trained. It will come back to you." Emily added a friendly nod to Charlotte's reassurance.
Margaret gave the girls a half hearted smile. "Thank you, I wish I could feel that kind of confidence."
"I know what you need right now." Bessy took Margaret's arm. "You need some nourishment to restore you and prepare you for rehearsal this afternoon. Don't you agree, girls?" She gave them a meaningful look, at which they nodded and grinned.
"Rehearsal?" Margaret somehow had not thought past the morning's class to recall the afternoon's agenda. She suddenly felt as though she might faint. "I think I just need to go lie down."
"Oh, no, you don't! We are going out. Get changed into your street clothes. We are treating you to Milton's finest fish and chips. Just the sustenance we need for a long afternoon of dancing."
As the girls walked the streets of Milton with their newly purchased fare, Margaret was surprised to realize she was actually feeling rather refreshed. Perhaps Bessy had been right not to let her rest yet.
"Watson's fish and chips are the best in England, I always say." Emily's words were a little muffled as she spoke with a mouthful of chips.
"Oh, you always say. As though you would know, you've never even been outside Milton." Charlotte smirked and shook her head dismissively.
"I have! I've been to Liverpool. Twice."
"Oh, aye, and what man took you to Liverpool?"
"Jim Leonards. We went down to the docks."
"Hmm, and what exactly were you doing at the docks?"
"Girls!" Bessy rolled her eyes at the other two girls and turned away from them, nodding toward the lunch Margaret was eagerly devouring. "So? Worth the trip, is it not?"
Margaret smiled. "It is delicious. I was more hungry than I realized."
"Of course you were! Dancing works up an appetite. And you'll need it this afternoon."
"It's worth it to get something other than the same old meals the dining hall serves every day." Charlotte delicately wiped some grease from her mouth with her handkerchief. "And, of course, to escape from Madame's always watchful eyes for a while."
Emily nodded. "Not to mention the Phantom."
Margaret heard a sharp gasp. Charlotte gave Emily a swift look, then hurriedly glanced away. Bessy pointedly did not turn her head.
"The Phantom?" Margaret asked, curiously.
"Yes, the Opera Ghost." This time Emily's comment earned her a sharp elbow jab from Charlotte.
"Oh, I see." Margaret gave them a small smile. "Yes, of course. Every theatre must have a proper ghost, mustn't it? It's almost a tradition."
All three girls looked at her strangely. "Our ghost isn't just a legend. The Phantom…" Bessy stopped, exchanging a look with the other girls. She smiled brightly. "No, of course. You're right, Margaret. It does sound rather silly." She brushed some crumbs off her skirt. "Anyway, we'd best be getting back if we don't want to be late for rehearsal. Heaven knows Margaret will get enough scolding from Madame this afternoon as it is."
Margaret groaned, and Emily giggled. "Poor Margaret. I suppose it's horrible to say that I'm glad it's not me she's yelling at today."
"Give it a week," Charlotte gave her a wry smile. "Madame will grow tired of picking on Margaret and be back to you again."
Emily's suddenly crestfallen expression was so comical even Margaret couldn't keep a straight face. The girls' laughter floated into the smoky air as they hurried back to the Opera House.
The afternoon proved much like the morning for Margaret. Dancing in the back row, she struggled to remember the choreography and keep up with the other girls.
"Wrong leg, Margaret! Jeté to the right, not left… Relevé, relevé… and chaîné, chaîné…" Madame Thornton had barely acknowledged the other dancers throughout the entire rehearsal, her eagle eyes focused on only the unfortunate Margaret. "You're behind the music! Keep up! Changement, changement…" Margaret bit her lip as she desperately tried to follow Madame's corrections while keeping the steps in her head.
The dancers were interrupted by the entrance into the studio of Mr. Bell and a well dressed young woman. "A moment of your time, Madame?" His tone made it clear his words were not a request. Madame Thornton sighed and banged her cane on the studio floor, halting the music.
"Thank you, Madame Thornton. Madame, ladies, I have the pleasure of introducing someone extraordinary that we are fortunate to welcome here to Milton Opera." He gestured to the young lady beside him, who stepped forward confidently. "This is Miss Ann Latimer, the famed soprano, who has dazzled audiences in London and across Europe. She will be granting us the exquisite honor of leading our season this year and gracing our stage with her brilliant talent."
Miss Latimer beamed at Mr. Bell's effusive praise. She placed her hand to her chest as though overwhelmed by such flattering sentiments. "Oh, Mr. Bell, you are too kind." She smiled benevolently around at the dancers, as though they were her adoring audience. "I am so grateful to be here at the world renowned Milton Opera. Your reputation is unparalleled. And of course, to get the chance to premier a role written by the peerless 'Maestro of Milton' is truly a privilege." She batted her eyes winningly at Mr. Bell.
To have an operatic role personally written for yourself would indeed be an exceptional honor, thought Margaret. The elusive 'Maestro of Milton' was well-known throughout Europe as an unequaled composer. His true identity was unknown, his compositions bearing only his distinctive moniker. He premiered one new opera for the season every year, and he never allowed his operas to be produced at any other venue. For that reason, the Milton Opera drew an audience from all over England and beyond, its tickets selling at a premium. Margaret had never had the chance to hear any composition from the 'Maestro'. She looked forward to finding out if his extraordinary reputation was truly deserved.
"And we are privileged to have you here as well, Miss Latimer. Now this is our ballet mistress, Madame Thornton." At Mr. Bell's gesture Madame gave a stiff nod of her head. "And this is our ballet corps, the best trained in all England. Why, Margaret here was even trained at the Paris Opera."
Margaret's cheeks burned at being singled out among the dancers, especially after the disastrous showing she had just given in rehearsal. Ann raised an eyebrow and nodded at her. "Paris, indeed? Lovely. I sang Carmen there last season. The new Palais Garnier is unrivaled on the Continent. But of course," turning back to Mr. Bell, "nothing could compare to performing here at the Milton Opera."
Mr. Bell smiled. He waved his hand at Madame Thornton. "Perhaps you would be so good as to give Miss Latimer a demonstration from our dancers?"
Madame's lips thinned, but she rapped her cane and the dancers took their places once again. As the piano began to play, Margaret did her best not to stand out, and blend in with the other girls.
As she danced, Margaret found her eyes straying to Ann and Mr. Bell. They stood watching the performance, Ann now wearing a rather bored expression. Mr. Bell was whispering something in her ear when he was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. A young page handed him a note, which Margaret noticed was bordered in black. She wondered if it bore the news of a death. Such notices were traditionally written on black bordered stationery.
Mr. Bell frowned as he read the missive, and then turned back and said something to Ann. He nodded to Madame Thornton, who rapped her cane once more, halting the music.
"I'm afraid that's all the time Miss Latimer and I have right now. Thank you, ladies, for your demonstration." Miss Latimer smiled condescendingly at them all as Mr. Bell escorted her from the room.
"Perhaps one day I will have the pleasure of leading a rehearsal uninterrupted." The annoyance in Madame Thornton's tone seemed to make her French accent even more pronounced. "That is all for today, girls. Margaret, I expect improved performance from you tomorrow."
Margaret nodded meekly as she joined the other girls in their deep révérence to their ballet mistress.
Margaret immediately retired after dinner that evening, declining an invitation to Bessy's room for tea and gossip. Margaret enjoyed their company and appreciated their efforts to include her, but she had barely been able to keep her eyes open in the dining hall, and had embarrassed herself by yawning several times.
Once in her room, she slumped against the door, exhaustion from the long day overwhelming her. She let her head fall back, closing her eyes. A single tear trickled down her cheek. She had been so sure that she could do this. But somehow now it all felt too much. I miss you, Papa. She began to realize how much strength she had always taken from his presence. Through thick and thin, her father had been her support, her comfort, her companion. She had taken it for granted he would always be there.
Sighing, she pushed herself away from the door. She managed to quickly undress and put on her nightgown before collapsing onto the bed. She tumbled into a deep sleep almost before her head hit her pillow.
"Margaret… Margaret…" Mr. Hale's voice rasped weakly.
"I am here, Papa. It is me." Margaret dabbed his flushed forehead with a cool cloth. "It is all right. I'm here."
"Margaret, I saw him… the angel…"
"Hush, Papa, calm yourself. You were dreaming."
For several days, since the fever had taken hold, her father had been ranting deliriously. The physician sadly told her he did not expect Mr. Hale had much time left.
"Margaret, I saw him, the Angel of Music."
"I am here, Papa. It is me. Not an angel."
"I saw him, Margaret. He will come to you. I will send him to you. The Angel of Music…" He began coughing hoarsely, deep convulsions that shook his frail form. Margaret fetched water from the nightstand and held it to his lips while he drank.
"There, Papa. It is all right. Just a dream."
Her father sighed, his eyelids fluttering closed. "He will come to you, Margaret… The Angel of Music… " His voice faded to a whisper, his disjointed ravings becoming increasingly irrational. "Angel… Margaret… Angel… the music… such lovely music…"
As he fell back into a fitful sleep, Margaret fondly stroked the silver hair, her tears falling onto his pillow. She listened to the hauntingly beautiful music that filled the room, soothing her dear Papa, allowing him to finally find a peaceful rest. She closed her eyes and allowed the sound to fill her, breathing it in, settling into her soul. The notes were strange and yet familiar, like setting off on a journey to a new world, and coming home. The music seemed to take hold of her mind and her body… she wanted to dance… to sing… she began to hum the tune, the melody coming to her instinctively…
Margaret's own voice startled her from sleep. With a gasp, she opened her eyes to the darkened room, the dream still vibrant and fresh in her mind. She had relived her memories of her father's last days, so recent and raw, his nonsensical rantings about an Angel of Music… but this time she had heard the music herself, and had been drawn into her father's hallucinations.
Margaret sighed and turned over to try to go back to sleep. Her eyes fell closed… and then suddenly shot wide open. Music. She heard the music still. It had filtered into her dream… But she was wide awake now. The sound was filling her room, such extraordinary music, unlike any she had ever heard. The instrument was an organ, but she had not immediately recognized it as such; she had never before heard an organ produce such expressive tones, such unworldly sound… She felt as though a door had been opened to her, a portal to a world like nothing she had ever dreamed, and she would never hear music the same way again.
She sat up in her bed, listening intently, letting the sounds surround her, float through her. She closed her eyes. She longed to dance, to let the music take control, to consume her. She wanted to become part of it, let it live in her.
The melody seeped into her mind, invading, taking hold. She felt a compulsion to join it. She began to sing, quietly vocalizing the melody, her light soprano relishing the lush musical phrases that came as naturally as breathing. She allowed her voice to become louder, filling the room, letting it fuse with the music, becoming one, indistinguishable. Margaret felt her spirits lifting, as though floating through the air.
Suddenly, her voice broke off. She realized the music had abruptly stopped playing, and she was singing by herself. What had happened? Had the musician heard her singing? Margaret's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. She had not considered that her voice might carry. She had enjoyed singing for her Papa, while he played the violin, but she never sang for anyone else. How mortifying, if she had been the cause for the music to stop playing… such remarkable music…
Margaret threw herself back down on her bed, pulling her covers up to her face, as though the mysterious musician could see her, alone in her dark bedroom. She lay quietly, eyes open, staring at the blackness.
After several minutes, she heard the music resume, almost tentatively, it seemed. She wondered if the player was afraid she would once again begin singing and disturb their practice. Despite her embarrassment, something in her still longed to join her voice with the music, but she bit her lip, determined not to give into the impulse. The music continued to play long after she finally closed her eyes and gave in to sleep. In her dreams she sang, succumbing to her longing to join her voice to the notes once more.