done, she stiffened and posed as he went into the chorus again.
‘I want to hug you but I fear you’d break—
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, you beautiful doll!’
Then the man stood still, admiring, and the doll danced. Aurora put her mind to it and held herself up through the sixteen stiff-armed twirls of her solo, and then there was only one more chorus for them to sing together, until the music ran out and she could stop. They held the final pose for a moment, and broke off to bow to Bert—and then, hearing applause from the seats, out to the house.
Thinking Walker must have come to see, Aurora went forward to the footlights and shaded her eyes to ask, ‘Were we all right? Did you like it?’
‘Very much indeed,’ came the answer, in a voice like sherry-coloured velvet.
Aurora backed away. Not Mrs. Walker. Who was it?
The woman walked down the raked aisle into the spill of light from the stage, the prow of her dress leading, furs swaying behind her. A perfectly composed face looked up from under her shadowing hat-brim, great eyes glowing and hands held out to applaud again. Eleanor Masefield.
The two onstage stood still for a moment. Her hand still in Jimmy’s, Aurora felt the contraction in his fingers, and then a second, purposeful pressure, before he let her hand drop and walked to the lip of the stage. Between two footlights he vanished; as her eyes adjusted, his silhouette reappeared.
‘You, here!’ he said, cool and detached, with an underlay of warmth that might be anger or affection. ‘What brings you to the sticks?’ His light voice almost laughed.
Beads of jet dazzled on Miss Masefield’s bodice. Jet sparked in her hat as well, and as she lifted her skirt to climb the stairs, fabulously lovely black boots appeared. She was black-rimmed and beautiful; her complicated gown was a deep ocean-going blue. She beamed suddenly, showing the impish gap between her teeth as if she were a boy, and moved forward past Jimmy to hold out a hand to Aurora. ‘Why, it’s Miss—don’t tell me—Evans. Ainsley. One of the little sisters.’
Aurora touched the outstretched hand, seeing no way not to, then reclaimed hers to pull her skirt out and drop a brief ironic curtsy. The white dress was no longer pristine and crisp, after an hour of vigorous dancing, but she stood very straight and braced herself, not knowing exactly for what.
Miss Masefield turned, hat hiding her face as a cloud obscures the moon, and held out her other hand to Jimmy. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Jimmy,’ she said, the laugh-note in her voice now.
He waited.
‘You are the only one who understands me—I’ve had to fire that cub in New York.’
Jimmy came into the circle of light, taking Eleanor’s hand, with such a concentrated gaze that Aurora felt invisible. She had faded, in her white dress, into the pale backdrop.
‘Come, lunch with me, I’m famished from the train,’ the actress said, turning abruptly, and catching sight, as she did so, of Bert Pike. ‘Oh, Bert! How lovely to see you,’ she cried. Bert gave a brief, almost rude salute, and Eleanor moved gracefully towards him, her skirt somehow flowing, although, in the latest fashion from New York, it did not touch the boards.
The luncheon invitation had quite clearly not included Aurora; she smoothed her hands down her white lawn frock, trying to remember how nice it once had been. Her mother’s stitches amateur, but very tiny, very loving.
Miss Masefield had placed herself theoretically out of earshot, engaging Bert in an earnest (and to Aurora’s eyes, entirely sham) exchange. Jimmy clasped Aurora quickly to him, his cheek on hers. He pressed her hand again and said, in a low voice, ‘I’d better find out what she wants.’
Asking for approval, which Aurora found cowardly.
‘I think we are quite finished,’ she said, cool in her turn. ‘If Bert needs no more.’ Bert’s face peered out from behind that cartwheel hatbrim; he gave a quick, dismissing nod.
Aurora went backstage. But she could not climb up the dressing-room stairs as yet. Her middle was clenched and unhappy, almost hot. She should not have danced so long this morning. When she heard the others leave (Eleanor Masefield’s mellifluous laugh easily floating up the aisle over the two men’s voices), Aurora went back out to the empty stage to retrieve their sides, walking through the circles of light the electrician had left on.
The footlights still glowed, and the overhead lights ghosted. Do not