Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I t was a very fortunate thing indeed that Josiah Galpin had spent much of his life around the stage, for his practice at theatricals allowed him to suppress an audible groan as yet another knock at his dressing room door interrupted his thoughts. It had been like this all morning: The new theatrical season was beginning, and there had been an endless parade of footmen, maids, and messengers coming to deliver cards, flowers, and more embroidered handkerchiefs than he knew what to do with.

Josiah knew that he must tolerate it, however, for his success was largely due to the goodwill of the ton. He hated to admit it, but the years of trodding the boards were beginning to take their toll in the form of aching ankles and knees that protested the cold and damp. Still, he would not have traded his art for anything—his first, greatest, and only love was dance.

He was in the midst of preparing a new pair of soft-soled leather shoes (slapping the soles roughly on the back of a chair to break them in the right spot, roughing the toes for better grip, replacing the laces so they provided better support) when the knocking came.

He allowed himself a small sigh, then sat down in the straight-backed chair before the dressing table, pulling his silk banyan closer about himself as he did so.

"Come," he said when he was properly settled.

A young man entered, clearly a footman; they all had a particular way of carrying themselves, all stiff shoulders and backs. Josiah merely lifted a brow at him, waiting expectantly for the footman to begin the patter.

"Lady Patience Chester sends her regards, and asks for the privilege of paying her respects this evening after the performance," the footman said, his nose aloft. With a flourish, he brandished an Josiah took it from the footman, feeling the weight of it. He had become adept at reading the subtler things communicated by calling cards: The thickness of the card, the clarity of the printing, the décor and flourishes all told a story about the identity of the sender. This one was quality, printed on a lovely cream background, with a subtle motif of violets in the corner.

Of course, he already knew the name. She was dipping her toes into the ton as a newlywed, the proverbial blushing bride. Josiah was tentatively hopeful that he would be able to secure her as a patron for his school of dance. Still, it would not do for him to appear over-eager. He turned the card over and over in his long fingers a few times as if he were contemplating the notion.

At last he said, "Please tell Lady Chester that I would be happy to see her. Tell her that an usher will direct her after the performance."

The footman nodded, then withdrew, closing the door so softly that it was barely audible. Josiah waited for another minute or two in case the footman decided to linger, listening at the door (which they were frequently tipped to do). It was only after several beats of silence that Josiah allowed himself the heavy sigh he had been suppressing.

Setting Lady Chester's card aside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the dressing table. He looked as if he were in a framed painting by some Romantic artist obsessed with botanicals. His dressing room was nearly full to bursting with bouquets and posies of every shape and size. The smell was beginning to give him a headache, and he rubbed one of his temples.

His new dancing shoes remained to one side, waiting for him to finish breaking them in. Abruptly, he stood, and in his stocking feet, he easily went up onto his toes, liking the way that it pulled in his calves. The dressing room was small, and with the crowded flowers, he could only manage a few stationary steps, but the familiar movements grounded him. He moved with ease and grace, even in this cramped space.

It rankled him to no end, this need to pander and smile to the ton in order to do what he loved, to survive. He had built quite a reputation for himself, both as a performer and as a dancing master. It was not only down to his talent, though that was not inconsiderable. He had learned to smile and curry favour so that the mothers of the ton would send their daughters to him for lessons, and the dowagers would give him patronage.

His dearest wish, beyond all else, was to gain financial independence, to manage his dance troupe without all of the periphery nonsense. If this run went well, it was not inconceivable. It would be close, but if he was lucky, if he was clever…

There was another knock at his door, heavier than the others had been that morning. It was the stage manager, a man with fists like hams and more hair on his forearms than his head, which he concealed with a badly frizzed wig. He poked his head in and eyed the gifts and flowers with disdain.

"Like a debutante's bedchamber in here," he grumbled.

Josiah was inclined to agree, but he didn't give the manager the satisfaction. "What is it, Knots?" he asked, watching in the mirror as he adjusted the position of his arms.

"Thought ye mightn't want to come to the aid of that wee nipper— Herself has him in her teeth again," Knots said with a gruff familiarity.

That brought Josiah's heels firmly back down to the ground. "I "He's just a lad," Knots protested. Despite the man's rough appearance, Josiah had long suspected that he was a soft touch. He appeared to have taken the newest, and youngest, member of their troupe under his protection.

"He must start learning," Josiah said, turning back to the mirror. "We were all just lads when we started out." Though I suspect you were pulling curtains for Moses, he added silently to Knots. It did indeed seem as if he had always been at the theatre, keeping order and pulling scenery ropes. His promotion to stage manager was new, and he had attempted to polish himself up a bit consequently.

Knots gave Josiah a baleful look as if he had heard his silent remark, and grunted. Josiah sighed again, which was becoming a running theme of the morning. Knots clearly wasn't going to let this go.

"Beatrice has always had issues with the young ones," Josiah said.

"She's as sharp as a hell-cat," Knots grumbled.

"I'll speak to her," Josiah acquiesced at last. Satisfied, Knots jerked his head in a sharp nod, which almost displaced his badly kempt wig.

It was always something these days. Sometimes Josiah yearned for his younger days, before he was such a hit with the ton. Things were simpler then, without so many things to weigh on him. It was a lot to manage on his own, but there was no one that he could share this life with. The ladies of the ton liked him in an ornamental way; they liked to flirt with him, they liked it when he flattered them. They liked to giggle behind their fans at his calves and his graceful bows. But that was it, no more, no less. They would not let him marry into their set, no matter his success.

"As if I have the time for that," he scoffed aloud. No, the closest that he could hope for a wife and family was the dancers under his care. With that in mind, he stepped into some plain leather shoes, and went to sort out his troupe before they ate each other alive.