Eva Ibbotson

Except that “burst” was not quite the word… It was the slight air of puzzlement, the cessation of voices which might otherwise have been expected to go on talking through an event of this kind, which made Rom turn from Alvarez and look over the silver epergne which concealed him to see what was going on.

And certainly the figure which had emerged from the sea of tissue justified the mystification of the diners. Dressed like their little sisters bound for the bath, her arms folded in incorrigible modesty across her chest, the girl’s dark eyes were wide with fear and from her limbs there came a faint but uncontrollable trembling.

A man in a blond toupee broke into laughter. The leader of the orchestra raised his eyebrows at Parker, whose ferrety face as he recognized the Professor’s daughter twitched with despair. Disaster clearly was upon them.

Then, from behind the silver epergne, there came the sound of clapping. Enthusiastic, thoroughly supportive clapping, evincing pleasure at the spectacle to come. Verney’s lead was always followed and Alvarez, who had clamped his monocle to his eye at the first sight of the girl, had already joined in. Now the others followed suit; there were good-humored cheers, fists thumped the table.

It was all that was needed. Harriet’s terror receded. She could make out no faces in the blue-wreathed, overheated room, but she sensed that the applause was kindly and now she climbed on to the rim of the cake, leapt lightly down on to the floor—and began to dance.

She danced naturally and with a perfect innocence, making no attempt whatever to match the gestures of Marie-Claude, but to the men watching her she purveyed an extraordinary sense of happiness, of fun. It was the delight of a young girl allowed to stay up for a party that Harriet shared with her audience—the excitement, the wonder of being awake in this glittering grown-up world—and the leader of the orchestra, getting her measure, quietened his players so that the showy, exuberant music revealed its charm and tenderness.

“Who is she?”

Alvarez’ aside to Rom had none of the languor that had characterized his utterances hitherto. The dissipated puffy face looked younger, almost vulnerable, as he followed the girl’s movements with his eyes.

“One of the dancers from the Dubrov ballet.” Rom’s own expression, as he watched and waited, gave nothing away—yet he was amazed by her performance. Though he had seen in the first instant that Harriet was pursuing some appallingly difficult task which she had set herself, it had taken all his control not to seize her by force and carry her from the room. But now, as she danced, he found himself—along with all the other sated, experienced men—following her movements with a forgotten thirst for innocence, for those dreams of a selfless life and a noble love that are the gift of youth. Without one step that could not be seen in any dancing class, without one “revealing” gesture, Harriet held her watchers spellbound, fastened by an invisible thread to her soft limbs, her tender eyes and loosened hair.

Only a few bars now to the end of the Offenbach and she moved closer, looking beneath the folds of the damask for the footstool. It was difficult, the next bit… Marie-Claude had practiced it a great many times; there was only a small space between the diners, but she had to do it—she mustn’t be afraid.

And now she had done it! Jumped in a graceful, soaring leap onto the table!

They had not expected that. There was a hiss of surprise, and glares of disapproval at the drunken Englishman on a side table who cried out and might have disturbed the concentration of the little dancer as she stood, pensive and relieved, testing the damask with her bare toe.

“It is necessary to be more legato on tables,” Marie-Claude had said. Moreover the table was narrow, the pink blurs that were the gentlemen’s faces disconcertingly close. Harriet let the first, languorous bars of The Odalisque go by before she knew what to do. Then she smiled… stretched her arms slowly above her head… began, most musically, to yawn… and to cover the yawn with splayed and slender fingers.

And for the men who by now would have been horrified had she as much as lifted her petticoat by a few inches, Harriet danced the irresistible, slow and delicious onset of sleep as it overcame the excited, now overtired girl she had been down there on the floor. She let her head droop forward… brought up her folded hands to make a cushion for her cheek. She rallied to perform a few quick pirouettes, as if she could not yet bear to let the bright day go… and faltered, overcome once more by weariness.