The Muse

The Muse

Chapter One

The soft soles of ballet slippers swished on the hardwood floors. Fantasie-Impromptu filled the room, trickling out of the open second-floor window of Ballet Theater of New York.

Every morning began like this, with company class, with groggy faces and tired bodies. Movements turned robotic from constant repetition. It was only during center exercises that the real dancing began.

Today was different, however. This morning, the dancers walked into the studio, fresh and alive. The first exercise, pliés, was danced with the grace of Swan Lake, legs were crisp during tendus and dégagés. By the current exercise, rond de jambes, sweat beads trickled down foreheads and fell in droplets to the floor. All of this was due to the man who sat at the front, arms folded across his chest, looking out at the company of dancers as they warmed up in preparation for a day of rehearsals. Every so often, he would look down, scribble something in a notebook with a thin black and gold pen, and then look back up with the same boredom in his eyes.

He was William Darcy, the ballet legend, the one in the company’s old promotional poster hanging in the lobby downstairs. William Darcy, who had now assumed a new title as BTNY Choreographer in Residence.

He was casting. This class was his audition. All of the dancers knew it; all of them wanted a part in his next piece, the one the critics were already buzzing about, the one that had yet to be choreographed.

The music ended, and the dancers brought their arms down to the finishing pose, holding their heads still longer than usual before sighing and relaxing. The ballet mistress nodded and began demonstrating the next exercise, frappés.

From the back of the room, on the barre against the wall, Elizabeth Bennet slowly mirrored the teacher’s movements with her legs, committing the exercise to memory. It was her sixth month in the company, but her stomach still fluttered throughout class. Every morning when she entered the studio, she saw her idols, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst, standing there in leg warmers and pointe shoes, and now, Elizabeth was dancing with them.

The exercise began and the ballet mistress slowly paced around the room offering corrections to the dancers. She walked by Elizabeth, staring with an arched eyebrow and then paused. The old woman tapped Elizabeth’s right hip twice.

“You’re sinking.”

Elizabeth pulled her torso up to correct the misalignment of her hip. With just a raised eyebrow, the old teacher nodded and continued on. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Although she had been in the company for six months, this was her first personal correction from the ballet mistress, who recognized no one except for her pet, Caroline Bingley. It took a while to establish oneself at the venerable company. With a concealed smile, Elizabeth took this correction as proof that she might perhaps be on her way to belonging here.

Class proceeded uneventfully. William Darcy remained grave at his seat in the front, scribbling notes, and staring indifferently, seemingly unaffected by any of the dancing. Many of the dancers tried to catch his eye during reverance, but he refused to acknowledge them. Sighing, he looked down to his notebook and frowned. When class ended, he stood and nodded curtly to the ballet mistress, to the dancers, and then strode out of the studio silently.

William Darcy took the stairs rapidly, heading straight to the office of the Associate Artistic Director, Charles Bingley. Charles and he had been good friends during their days in the company. They had entered the company at the same time, and while William had rose up the company ranks faster, they had remained close.

“Hey Will,” Charles said, smiling and leaning back in his chair when his friend entered his office. “How was class? What’d you think?”

William sat down in one of the old leather chairs on the opposite end of the desk. “Terrible. They’re hopeless.”

Charles laughed. BTNY was not only one of the best companies in the city, it was also one of the oldest and most highly regarded in the country. Some of the best dancers in the ballet world were counted amongst its ranks. Corps members in BTNY were fit to be soloists in any other regional ballet company. Both William and Charles knew they were wonderful, but William, in his dry way, always loved getting the best of his friend.

“So,” William smiled, “when can I start?”

“Tomorrow if you want. Most of the dancers will be rehearsing Giselle today until three.”

Nodding, William opened up the manila folder on his lap. “I suppose you’ll insist that Caroline dance the lead.”

Charles laughed. “I won’t insist, but I’m sure she won’t leave you or me alone until she does.”

“She’s a fabulous dancer, but I don’t know about her for this piece...”

“I know what you like, Will. She’s got the technique. Perhaps with coaching, she can give you what you want.”

William stared absently out of the window behind his friend. “You can’t tease warmth out of stone, Charles.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the Associate AD looked to William. His sister would throw a hissy-fit if she wasn’t cast in this piece. She would run to the Artistic Director, Sir William Lucas, and threaten to quit and join New York City Ballet, as she always did. In appeasement, Lucas would cave. It was no use fighting Lucas or his sister. He had tried it several times already and lost. Charles loved his sister because that was what family duty called for, but as administration, he saw her as a pebble in a pointe shoe.

“Will, please...” Charles insisted quietly.

William managed a terse smile. “So Caroline for the A cast and Louisa Hurst for the B cast. And them,” he said, throwing the roster of headshots on the table. A few faces were circled in red.

Charles sighed and smiled warmly at his friend. No one in the company understood him better, watched out for him more than William. It had been that way since day one, and it was still that way over fifteen years later. Charles plucked the headshots up off the desk and flipped through them, nodding in approval.

“I’ll send these up to Lucas. He okays anything I do, so I’ll post something on the boards today.”

“Thanks, Charles,” William said, standing and stretching out a hand. Charles shook it and grinned.

“It’s great to be working together again, eh, Will? Does being back here inspire any nostalgic feelings?”

“A few. Being back with all of the neuroses and egos, who wouldn’t feel nostalgic?”

Charles laughed and patted his friend on the back. “If you thought it was bad when you were a dancer, you should see what it’s like on the administrative side of things. Good luck, Will. You’re going to need it.”

William shook his head at Charles and smiled. William Darcy had talent; he didn’t need luck. Leaving the office, he headed to the studio to work out some of the choreography before tomorrow’s rehearsal. Downstairs, a few stray corps members were stretching and gabbing in the hallways, warmers and T-shirts pulled on over their leotards and tights. Their chatter faded as he breezed past them and into Studio B, the one without windows, before he closed the door with a decisive and resounding thud.

Elizabeth Bennet was one of those dancers, bent over her legs, stretching out the kinks in her thighs. Her sister, Jane, exhaled slowly.

“So that’s William Darcy. He looks younger than in the pictures.”

“Did you see his face during class? He could be one of those human statues that perform for the tourists in Times Square. He didn’t blink once throughout adagio. I watched him the whole time,” Elizabeth commented.

Jane Bennet was Elizabeth’s older sister. Unlike her sister, Jane had forsaken college and entered the ballet world early, at eighteen. This marked her third year as a BTNY corps member, and lately, she had been allowed to perform a few soloist roles.

Jumping up and down next to them, in an attempt to warm up her feet, was Charlotte Lucas, no relation to Sir William Lucas. Along with Elizabeth, she, too, had entered BTNY that year, although she had danced for three years previously at Atlanta Ballet.

“I wonder who will end up in his first piece. Think Bingley will weasel her way into it?”

Jane giggled. “William Darcy doesn’t seem like the kind to be moved by her threats.”

Caroline Bingley was currently the reigning queen of the company, and perhaps the most revered principal dancer in the country. Still a young and brilliant dancer, she had several years ahead of her in an already illustrious career. The prima was a whirlwind and virtuoso. Her movements were bold and crisp, her technique flawless. With long legs and flexible hips, her extensions and fast feet made her an early favorite with audiences. She had spent only a few months in the corps de ballet before soaring up the ranks of the company and settling at prima ballerina only three years into her career, at twenty-one.

Of course, there were other factors behind this speedy ascent. Caroline and her older brother, Charles, came from old New York money; their parents and grandparents had concert halls, museum wings, and colleges named after them. Besides being a famous principal dancer, she was a darling of the New York social scene, dated Hollywood actors and Italian models, and often appeared in the pages of the New York Times society section.

Elizabeth was now dancing in the same room as she and their paychecks displayed the same company name, although Elizabeth was sure the number of digits was vastly different. Bouncing up, Elizabeth announced it was her lunchtime and headed down to the locker room to fetch her tuna sandwich and apple. When she returned, a gaggle of dancers had amassed before the message board. Mr. Bingley had just posted the cast for William Darcy’s first piece. Elizabeth practically whooped with excitement when she saw her name there, third from the top of corps members, right above her sister, Jane’s.

From across the room, Jane beamed and flashed her two thumbs up. Elizabeth grinned back, winked, and then accepted the congratulations of a few friends. She glanced over to the door of Studio B, heart fluttering at her acceptance into the piece of the legendary William Darcy.

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At ten minutes before the start of rehearsal the next day, the door of Studio B flung open and William Darcy stood in the doorway. His sharp features fell into a disapproving frown, and he scanned the hall outside the studio.

“Dancers in my piece, I start at three sharp,” he ordered, silencing the chatter in the halls. Before disappearing back inside, he frowned once more.

One of the other corps members, Katherine James, raised her eyebrows. “I have a friend in San Francisco Ballet, who says he’s a real hard-ass, a stickler for discipline and all that.”

“I’d let him discipline me any day,” giggled another dancer, a brunette named Lydia Lopez.

“Seriously, Lydia,” Katherine warned, “she said he made at least one dancer cry in every rehearsal.”

The four dancers paused, considering this as they glanced over to the studio.

“How old do you think he is?” asked Charlotte.

“Thirty-five,” Katherine answered, “retired at thirty.”

“And at the rate he’s going, he’ll have a heart attack and die by the time he’s forty,” Elizabeth said.

“Liz!” Charlotte whispered, looking towards the open door of the studio. Lydia and Katherine smiled.

Elizabeth nodded towards the studio. “Well, shall we?”

The girls filed into the studio where a few others dancers were already doing pliés and relevés to warm up their feet. William Darcy stood in the corner, fiddling with the stereo, gazing in the mirror at the group that had just entered. Taking a quick head count, he was several dancers short and missing a prima. He sighed through his teeth. To William, the principal was supposed to set the tone for the other dancers; if she arrived late and lacked discipline, then surely the younger dancers would follow her example.

By three o’clock, all dancers, except Caroline, had arrived. Not one to go against his own policy of punctuality, William commanded one of the corps girls to shut the door and then looked out at the line of hesitant faces staring back at him.

“You,” he said, pointing to Jane, who straightened under his scrutiny. “You’ll come out on stage from there.” He pointed to the front, left corner of the room.

As he proceeded to direct the dancers to their opening spots, Lydia leaned into Elizabeth. “Nice introduction, huh? Guess he doesn’t like formalities,” she whispered.

“You, there will be no voices except my own in rehearsal. Got it?” He frowned at Lydia and Elizabeth. Embarrassed, Lydia nodded and looked down.

The door creaked open and the light titter of Caroline Bingley’s laughter was heard before she stepped in.

“...I’ll call you,” she chirped to someone in the hall, before stepping into the studio. All eyes froze on her. Flashing a wide smile, she set her bag down in the corner and strolled to the middle of the room.

“You’re late,” William said, glancing at the clock in the back.

Caroline smiled. “Sorry about that.”

“Rehearsal starts at three, Ms. Bingley. Not when you decide you’d like to show up. I expect you to be on time from now on,” he said sternly, watching the smile melt off her face.

Caroline Bingley had not been ordered around since her first few months in the company, nine years ago. Had this been any other ballet mistress or choreographer, Caroline would have offered a few choice words, quit the piece, and left the stunned room to their own devices. But this was no ordinary choreographer. Dealing with a man like William Darcy called for more finesse. Caroline had no desire to ruin her chance to appear in his piece. Their combined fame and talent would probably make this work equivalent to Balanchine’s The Four Temperaments or Tharp and Baryshnikov’s Cutting Up. The allure of rekindling what they had begun several years back also factored into Caroline’s deference.

“Right, sir,” she said saluting, with a smile warming the features of her face.

A few of the dancers giggled. William’s face remained frozen in a hard stare. Caroline shirked back, allowing him to finish placing the rest of the dancers. He showed them the first steps, offered corrections and suggestions, and then positioned them in their formations. Elizabeth found herself in the back row, all the way stage right.

Caroline, whose entrance came later than the corps de ballet, stood off to the side, yawning and leaning with both elbows on the barre.

Midway through a pas de bourre, William Darcy looked up at her reflection in the mirror and stopped mid-step. The dancers looked at him in confusion as he turned around.

“Ms. Bingley, off the barre.”

Caroline’s jaw dropped, as she could only stare at William. “I’m sorry?” she replied. Surely, he couldn’t be ordering her around, the biggest star in the company, like some summer program apprentice.

“I said quit leaning on the barre,” he growled. “It’s unprofessional.”

Straightening herself, Caroline raised her chin and replied saucily, “Mr. Darcy, I believe leaning on the barre is not specifically forbidden in my contract. Perhaps you should discuss it with Charles.”

William reddened. Caroline Bingley may have been it in the company now, but prima ballerinas came and went, and he was a legend. He was also the choreographer, highly acclaimed by the critics, one who could name his salary to artistic directors, probably up there in the ranks with Nuryev and Baryshnikov, and there was no way in hell he was going to let this little snot defy him, prima, best friend’s sister, or not.

“Ms. Bingley,” he said, his voice lowered in a chilling monotone, “your contract is the administration’s concern, not mine. In my rehearsals, I have my own rules. If you don’t like it, I welcome you to discuss it with William Lucas.”

If there was one thing everyone, including Caroline, knew, it was that Lucas would choose Darcy over her. Caroline might be great, but William was golden. The two stared at each other in a momentary standoff. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock’s second hand and a few stray voices that rose up from the street. The dancers’ eyes darted from the choreographer, his face frozen in indifferent calm, to Caroline, whose eyes flashed with insubordination. Finally, Caroline turned away in a silent huff, conceding to William.

Elizabeth stared at the scene, marveling at the choreographer’s contained power. Even Mr. Lucas could not force such obedience out of the prima. None of them had ever seen Caroline Bingley silenced so thoroughly and without histrionics or threats, just a slicing glance of those dark eyes. Although she had done nothing wrong, Elizabeth shrunk into herself, vowing never to do anything that might warrant those eyes to look at her that way.

“The opening sequence. Again,” William barked, confident that Caroline would give him no more trouble. Counting the rhythm loudly, William paced back and forth, slowly inspecting the dancers.

“You, elbows up.”

“Right side. No, your other right!”

“Glissade, not pas de bourrée.”

He had marked the steps twice already and was exasperated that the dancers hadn’t yet picked them up. He ordered them to go through the sequence again, threatening that he would keep them as long as it took to get it right, union rules or no.

Stopping at Elizabeth, he stared at her feet.

“You, heels down.” The steps, however, were too fast for Elizabeth, and she had to sacrifice a succinct landing after the jump series in order to move on to the subsequent pas de bourrée. “If you value your Achilles tendon, you’ll get those heels on the floor after you jump,” he said.

Furiously trying to keep up, Elizabeth missed a step, pausing to see where the others dancers were so she could catch up.

“Don’t stop!” he growled.

Elizabeth frantically caught up just as the sequence ended. She saw William look heavenward before he yelled to all the dancers, “Once more, until everyone gets it right.”

Too afraid to sigh in exasperation, the dancers walked back to their initial spaces, panting and tired.

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Despite it all, rehearsal ended promptly at five o’clock and the sweaty, exhausted dancers flung off their pointe shoes and trudged back to the locker rooms. Charles greeted them as they left, smiling broadly in encouragement. After they had all filed out, Charles rushed into the studio.

“Well, how’d it go?”

“Fine, except for your sister.”

“What’d she do this time?”

“Came in late, lounged on the barre, openly challenged me.”

Charles shrugged. “Sounds tame for her. She challenges everyone.”

Narrowing his eyes, Darcy glared at his friend. “Her behavior isn’t professional, Charles. She acts like a child. Do me a favor, and tell her to cut the crap.”

“I’m not telling my sister anything of the sort! She’ll rip out my insides and feed them to the vultures,” Charles joked.

Darcy shook his head and removed the CD from the stereo. “Who’s the one you’re seeing?”

“Jane. Jane Bennet. The tall one with the blonde hair. She’s good, no?”

Darcy shrugged. “She has potential. Nice body, but a little blank in the expression.”

Charles tsked and shook his head at his friend. “You’re too critical. She’s lovely, a beautiful dancer. The most fluid adagios you’ll ever see. And she’s a wonderful woman. An angel!”

“I suppose you’re just two smiling fools when you’re together,” William said wryly.

“No, actually, we’re not.”

“You know you shouldn’t get involved with the dancers.”

“Why not?” Charles protested, “It never stopped you when you were in the company.”

“It’s one thing being a dancer, and another when you’re on the administrative side of things.”

Charles frowned in response.

“Take it from experience. If she hasn’t asked you for a better part yet, then wait. It’s coming,” William quipped.

“She’s not like that, Will. I’ve dated women like that. Jane isn’t one of them.”

William was doubtful. “Just be careful, Charles. Dancers in corps de ballet will do anything not to be in the corps de ballet.”

Charles stared at his toes, considering his friend’s words. Having known William for close to fifteen years, Charles knew that sometimes the best response to the man was none at all. The two remained in silence for a time before Charles smiled and spoke.

“But, hey, I’ve been dying to know what you think about the corps. They’re pretty good, aren’t they?”

Charles smiled, eagerly seeking the approval of his staunchest critic. As the Associate Artistic Director, one of Charles’ duties was to oversee auditions and choose new members for BTNY. This meant the corps de ballet, future stars of the company and ballet world, was under his jurisdiction

William returned Charles’ smile with a more muted grin and nodded slowly. “They’re acceptable. Strong technical dancers, most of them. But, it’s obvious you were the one who chose them.”

Charles laughed. “And why is that?”

“They all reek of that Balanchine standoffishness that I loathe,” William explained, knowing his friend trained at School of American Ballet, founded by George Balanchine. “Their faces are dead. Bent elbows and wrists. They have no expression, Charles.”

“And here I thought you were ‘following in Balanchine’s footsteps’,” Charles teased, quoting a recent article in Dance Magazine.

“The man was a brilliant choreographer, and I respect him artistically, but he had a horrible sense of casting. All limp and dull dancers.”

Charles laughed again, more amused than offended by his friend’s characteristic grouchiness. “Okay, but what about...what about Lydia Lopez? She’s fabulous. Fiery and quick feet. A real Firebird.”

“Yeah, and a dead face that’s painful to watch, even if she is fast.”

“She’s young, Will! You have to grow into that kind of expression.”

Charles shook his head. “Okay, okay. There’s Jane’s sister, Elizabeth Bennet. She’s one of the best incomings we’ve had in a while.”

“Oh, and I suppose Jane Bennet had absolutely no influence on your opinion of her whatsoever,” William said dryly.

Charles started in mock offense. “You may not know this, but I can formulate an opinion on my own.”

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Elizabeth was halfway down the stairs before she realized she was missing her water bottle. Face drenched with sweat, throat dry and burning, she decided she needed it desperately and turned back to the studio.

Voices wafted out from Studio B.

“Oh, and I suppose Jane Bennet had absolutely no influence on your opinion of her whatsoever,” came a deep voice she recognized as William Darcy’s.

Elizabeth froze and looked around her. The hallway was empty and deadly silent. She feared taking another step, in case they caught her listening in on a conversation that she shouldn’t have been hearing.

“You may not know this, but I can formulate an opinion on my own,” said Charles.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, becoming immediately suspicious of the two men talking about her sister.

“Which one is she anyway?” asked William.

“Little bit darker hair than Jane, but shorter.”

Eyes widening, Elizabeth then realized the two men were speaking of her. Two impulses ripped through her: the impulse to about-face and flee down the stairs, and the impulse to tiptoe closer to the open door and listen to what the assistant artistic director and infamous choreographer were saying about her.

“There are four dancers by that description.”

Charles sighed. “She’s the one with the...” He said no more.

Elizabeth frowned. “With the what?” she whispered urgently.

“Oh. Uh huh,” came the reply from the choreographer. “She doesn’t put her heels down in the jumps. She’ll get Achilles tendonitis in a couple of years, and you’ll be out of a dancer.”

Elizabeth started. She clutched onto the wall for support and felt her heartbeat spike.

“I can talk to her about that. That’s a habit easily fixed.”

“And this,” William paused, “you don’t find that a problem?”

Elizabeth’s heart thundered in her chest, terrified and desperate to know what “this” meant.

“She’s curvier than the other dancers, yes,” Charles said. Elizabeth’s jaw fell open. She glanced down at her chest, what “this” meant.

“But she’s thin,” Charles continued. “Not a typical ballerina body, yes. What’s the problem? You cast her.”

“It was either her or Anne Boroughs. And you know how I feel about her. Besides, Charles, this is a contemporary piece. BTNY’s repertoire is seventy percent classical. The crux of it is she’s too short for Sugar Plum, and Clara doesn’t have tits. She’ll hit a dead-end in the corps and be back in some suburban dance studio teaching pre-kindergarten ballet by the time she’s twenty-five. A bad investment.”

“Oh, Will, come on. She’s not that...”

Elizabeth’s face burned. Her mind went white, her heartbeat crashing in her ears. She felt a lump of anger well up in her throat, and she resisted the urge to spit a string of curse words out into the empty hallway.

Chapter Two

Forgetting her water, Elizabeth spun on the balls of her feet, tiptoeing back to the stairway before she charged down, storming into the locker room. She muttered curses under her breath. Jane and a few other dancers in the room cast her quizzical glances, which she ignored. Stripping off her leotard and tights and yanking her hair out of the bun, she strode over to the showers and turned the water on cold. Elizabeth stepped in, feeling the freezing water fall over her shoulders and neck. She shivered, her breathing ragged.

It was always the male choreographers and directors who had hang-ups about dancers’ bodies. She had been told by enough of them to go on a diet, get a breast reduction, wear sports bras - all that, for a B-cup! By real world standards, Elizabeth was small, but the ballet world wanted their girls thin and flat. Elizabeth was trim, but her hips and breasts had been a plague all of her dancing life. No matter how well she danced, it always came down to that- her body.

Just as she made it into BTNY, they were ready to retire her. So much for a sense of belonging. Forget the dancing; it was all about the body. Even for a supposed “artist” like William Darcy. What bullshit! Turning off the water, she stalked across the room.

Charlotte lounged on the bench by the lockers, winding a band-aid around a bleeding blister.

“What’s up, Liz? You look like you’re ready to kill,” Charlotte asked. In their six months of friendship, Charlotte had discovered Elizabeth, for all of her vigor, possessed a simmering temper when provoked.

“If one more freaking man tells me my boobs are too big, I’m going to go ape-shit!”

“Too late,” Katherine teased from across the locker room.

“Your boobs aren’t big, Lizzy,” Jane said, gazing around the door of her locker over at her sister. “Who told you that?”

“Oh, only every male choreographer I’ve ever worked with. You know, it’s never the women. Never! It’s like they’re obsessed with perfect little flat-chested waifs. I’m an okay dancer, for God’s sake, but it’s always about the body,” Elizabeth raved into her open locker, searching for her underwear.

“Okay, and who said something this time?” Charlotte asked.

“William Darcy. ‘Too short for the Snow Queen and Clara doesn’t have tits!’ He also said I had a shelf-life of twenty-five,” Elizabeth said, her hands trembling with anger. “I overheard him talking with Charles.”

Charlotte frowned and wrapped her arm around her friend’s shoulders. “That’s because he hasn’t seen you really dance, Liz. Today was an off day. Don’t worry. And look who it’s coming from. A man who retired at thirty.”

Elizabeth’s face softened. She leaned her forehead against her locker and groaned into its depths. “Man, I just hate that though. Why is it always about my chest?”

“There’s always the old toothbrush-down-the-throat diet,” Katherine joked again. Elizabeth turned and rolled her eyes.

Jane smiled and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “Charles thinks you’re great, Liz. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Besides, William Darcy doesn’t sign our paychecks,” Charlotte added. “And he cast you, didn’t he?”

Elizabeth smiled, her anger ebbing. She sighed and rolled her neck, stretching out her shoulders. After a few moments, she looked at Jane and grinned. “I suppose Charles couldn’t really fire me. Kind of hard to sack the sister of the woman you’re trying to bag, huh?”

Jane’s face went scarlet. “Elizabeth Bennet,” she mouthed, putting a finger over her lips with the sweet strictness of a kindergarten teacher.

Elizabeth laughed and finished dressing, her dark mood dissipating. Katherine grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and bid them all goodbye. A chorus of goodbyes followed her out.

“How absurd,” Elizabeth laughed once she had left.

“What is?” answered Charlotte.

“The whole situation back there. I felt like I was in some scene from ‘The Young and the Restless.’ Like there should have been some camera panning in on my livid face, and I should have said something like, ‘I’ll get you, William Darcy, and your little dog, too.’”

Charlotte laughed. “Lizzy, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous? Who says things like that? Who overhears things like that? It’s like something out of a daytime drama.”

Jane shook her head. “You’ve been watching too many soap operas. Come on, Liz. Get dressed. I’m starving.”

“Okay. Hold on, I still need to go back and get my water bottle. Hopefully, I won’t hear anymore of William Darcy’s nasty opinions.” Elizabeth shook her head and then smiled, in spite of it all.

The lights in the studio were still on, but she heard no voices coming from within. Hesitantly, she entered and spotted William Darcy by the stereo, scribbling into his notebook. He looked up, alerted by the squeak of her sneakers on the wood floor.

Elizabeth met his gaze, but her expression remained unchanged. Anger had melted away all of her intimidation, and she breezed into the studio, heading for the opposite end where her water bottle stood in the corner. Looking into the mirror, William followed her with his eyes. She bent down and swept up the bottle in her hand. Before turning away, Elizabeth raised her eyes, glittering and cold.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Darcy,” she said flatly, her lips turning upwards in a smile, but her voice, with its monotone timbre, lacked any kind of ingratiation. It was a tone he was not used to from anyone, especially those in the corps de ballet. Spinning around, she strode out of the studio, leaving William to consider her tone for a few seconds, before he turned back to his notes.*With the dancers now acclimated to his demands for punctuality, William was free to stride into rehearsals at exactly three o’clock, knowing that they would all be there waiting for him. He refused to be present in the room waiting around for a stray corps girl.

When placing the dancers or guiding their moves, he noticed they all shirked in fear of him. He preferred this. Fear and intimidation were the seeds of discipline. William Darcy saw no need to become best friends with his dancers like Charles did; he just needed them to perform. Girls cast their eyes down when he grasped their shoulders to move them over a few feet. They nodded meekly when given corrections. He even seemed to tame the beastly Caroline Bingley, rendering her mute, but still haughty, during those two-hour rehearsals.

To praise a dancer was to spoil her, so believed William Darcy. Once a dancer received too much praise, she became like Caroline: lazy, defiant, undisciplined, and arrogant. He never bestowed compliments, only silence. But that did not mean that William was blind to a good performance.

William trusted Charles’ opinion. With his friend at the helm, the corps de ballet had been transformed into an assembly of technically sharp dancers. Perhaps too sharp for William’s taste; he preferred dancers who danced, not simply dancers who could perform the steps without mistake. Nevertheless, the quality of dancers had improved in the years that he had been away from New York.

Thus, William could not take Charles’ words lightly, “She’s one of the best incomings we’ve had in years.”

He hadn’t noticed anything remarkable about Elizabeth Bennet in company class or rehearsal. She was petite, with a lackluster body, far too soft-looking, not enough musculature. Her jumps, while acceptable for professionals, were muddled and not at the level of the other corps de ballet members. Yes, she was good. They were all good. But one of the best incoming dancers? William thought not.

Then he had a chance to study her in his second rehearsal. She still fumbled through the jump sequence, but William allowed his eyes to look further up, ignoring her legs and focusing solely on Elizabeth’s torso. From the movements of her upper body, he would have never been able to tell how much she was struggling. Her arms moved through the port de bras gracefully, her head placed just where it should be, and her face radiating a focus not seen in dancers ten years older than she. William observed her, his eyebrows furrowed critically.

“You, in the back,” he called out, pointing to Elizabeth, “switch with her.” Suddenly Elizabeth found herself in the front of the diagonal formation that opened the piece. Rather than the self-satisfied look of a promoted dancer, there was a cold reticence in her eyes. She sharply strode to the front, avoiding his eyes, no pleasure on her face at all.

“From the beginning,” William commanded, walking over to the CD player to restart the music. He crossed his arms over his chest to watch. Four corps members bounded on stage, in a series of fast-paced jumps, merging and rebounding to somehow form the last diagonal formation.

“You,” he said, nodding sternly to Elizabeth, “you need to close your glissades more definitively. Attack the descent.”

Elizabeth tried as he suggested, spending less time up in the air, and focusing on closing her legs coming down.

“Now you’re short-changing the jump. Try again.”

Elizabeth looked blankly at herself in the mirror and jumped again.

“No,” Darcy said, waving his hand. “Okay, everyone from the beginning.”

Frowning, Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror. How was she supposed to know what he meant if he simply barked orders at her, without demonstrating? She raised her hand.

“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with as much politeness as possible, “would you mind showing me the exact rhythm you want for that phrase please?”

He blinked a few times and stared at her. Did she realize at all whose time she was wasting? He had only two months of rehearsals, only three days a week, only two hours each. He had three movements to choreograph and clean, and this little corps dancer wanted private lessons. He shook his head, amazed at the lack of discipline in dancers these days.

“No,” he said flatly, “go back there and figure it out for yourself. That’s what professionals do.”

Elizabeth’s gaze remained on his for a few silent moments before she averted her eyes to the side of the room. Straightening her spine, she retreated from the center of the studio to stand at the back.

So William Darcy wanted to insult her professionalism? Since when was asking a valid question unprofessional? She felt the pressure of pent-up anger press against her chest. She knew others were staring at her, some in sympathy, some just to stare. Ignoring them, Elizabeth lifted her chin and put her hands on her hips, waiting for the music. It began, and she silently counted out the two bars before she bounded out once again into the opening sequence.*

Rehearsal finished with William proclaiming, “The piece will be a failure if you all don’t start learning how to look more alive.” Not a positive end to two hours of grueling drills. A few dancers trudged out. Caroline Bingley was the first to grab her face towel and water and storm out in a huff. Elizabeth stayed behind.

She had no clue what Mr. Darcy had meant. Attack the descent, but don’t short-change the jump. Was she supposed to defy gravity? In the back of the room, Elizabeth studied her glissade in the mirror. A few other dancers were honing steps around her as well, but the choreographer’s eyes alighted on her. She noticed him pacing slowly towards her, like a tiger waiting, waiting before it bounded out for the kill.

“You’re not jumping enough,” he said, when he was no more than a few feet from her. She tried again and he shook his head. “It’s not from your legs. It’s from your hips.”

Elizabeth placed her arms akimbo and looked down in frustration. Head still down, she raised her eyes up to the choreographer. “I’m sorry, I never learned how to jump from my hips.”

Annoyance flashed across his face. He was the choreographer; he taught them the steps of the dance, not how to dance. He saw Elizabeth raise her chin, not in conceit like Caroline, but in a gesture that he could only interpret as a challenge. Her glittering eyes narrowed slightly. He knew then that she thought he was talking bullshit and that he, too, had no clue what “jumping from the hips” meant.

He met her challenge flatly. “Don’t go for height. Go for movement. Imagine someone’s carrying you across in the air. Both legs out.”

Unlike Caroline or even Lydia, Elizabeth did not have the quickness of feet to be a virtuoso jumper. She tried once more, and the impatient look Mr. Darcy gave her indicated he was ready to give up and leave her to her own devices. Elizabeth cocked her chin up again and looked him square in the face, in a wordless challenge to him to show her the right way.

Sighing, he strode behind her and grabbed her waist. “Glissade,” he ordered.

She bent her knees and jumped. His hands were strong but light on her back, lifting her slightly off the ground. Elizabeth pointed both toes in the air, and she felt the pressure of his hands on her sides, guiding her back down to the floor. She alighted, feet landing decisively into fifth position. He had barely moved her off the floor, and yet the dynamics of the jump felt completely different. William saw recognition in her eyes, and saying nothing, smugly returned to the CD player.

She tried it a few times herself, and he watched her in the mirror wordlessly. Before shucking off her warmers and exiting the studio, she cast him one more look, cold, resentful for the help. It made him pause, his temper instinctively flaring, but before he could respond, she turned and was gone from the studio.

“Partnering a woman was like making love to her,” a teacher had once told William’s class. They had been teenagers at the time, and most had blushed furiously at the sudden reference to sex.

“You need to touch the woman gently, but not too gently that she feels abandoned. You need to be strong, but not too strong, or she’ll feel overpowered and uncomfortable. Good partners were usually good lovers, and vice versa,” his teacher had said. William had never forgotten that advice.

Was it the chicken or the egg, he wondered? Had he bedded so many dancers because he had been a good partner? Or had he become a good partner by sleeping with so many women?

In any case, he always thought of that statement before he touched a woman on stage or in the bedroom. The thought had been on his mind, too, as he had placed his hands around Elizabeth Bennet’s waist and lifted her.

In his experience, the same truth held for women - the ones who let themselves be partnered were usually the ones who melted, molded, and danced under the sheets, the ones who blushed, flinched, or stiffened when a dancer touched her on the floor, were usually the ones to shrivel up in bed.

Elizabeth Bennet, he had noted, had eased into him, allowing herself to melt into his hands. He had grabbed onto her suddenly, a move that would send many principal dancers flinching, and yet her spine had remained firm. She had not started at all when he put his hands on her slick skin.

A small detail, but one that would stay on his mind for the rest of the evening.

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Jane and Elizabeth Bennet waited for the last taxi to whiz past them before they jaywalked onto Columbus Avenue. They were discussing the recent intrigue between Jane and Charles Bingley.

“Have you slept with him yet?”

“No!” Jane replied, reddening. “And I wish you wouldn’t imply stuff like that in front of the others. They’ll talk.”

“Okay, fine. Have you at least kissed him?”

By the blush on Jane’s face, Elizabeth knew she had. “Oh! Details! When? Where? How was it?”

“It…it was in his office. Just last week,” Jane glanced sideways at her sister. “And it was really nice.”

Elizabeth squealed and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “This is so exciting. So are you together officially or what?”

Jane shrugged. “I don’t know what we are. He’s taken me out for that one dinner. We’ve kissed once in his office. He smiles at me, but then again, he smiles at everyone.”

“But he smiles at you differently, Janey. Like a goof. It’s almost pathetic, really.”

Jane sighed. “I’m sure everyone will think I’m just trying to get a promotion out of him.”

“Don’t worry about what they say. People in companies get together and get married all of the time. Hell, we’re the only people we have time for,” Elizabeth encouraged. “Besides, do you know how lucky you are? Sex! With a real man and not some plastic toy! God, how long has it been...?”

Jane gawked and pinched her sister’s arm. “Lizzy!”

“Oh, come on! Like that hasn’t been on your mind? How long has it been for you?”

By now, Jane’s features were scarlet. “I...I don’t think I have to answer that.”

“Well, you definitely haven’t gotten any in the six months we’ve lived together.”

“Must we discuss this in the middle of the street?”

“Fine, fine.”

Elizabeth and Jane walked in silence and descended into the subway station. Once they had passed through the turnstiles, Jane began again, “He wants to meet Mom.”

Elizabeth stared at Jane in horror. “Have you warned him?”

“I tried to change the subject.”

“Prevent that meeting at all costs, if you ever want to see him again.”

Jane frowned at her sister, but said nothing in response. Both girls were not looking forward to their mother’s visit in a few days. It would be her first time in New York City, and she was coming prepared with two cans of mace, a rape alarm, a fancy money belt with hidden zippers, and two different guidebooks. Fan Bennet had always been slightly neurotic, a trait which had only intensified after her divorce from their father a year ago. Now in addition to that, she was needy, snippy, weepy, and bossy. And she was coming to stay in their cramped apartment in Harlem. Fan had planned a detailed itinerary of her New York trip, and she expected both daughters to escort her, seeing to her every need.

She was also coming to one of their Nutcracker performances. No doubt she would sit in the audience with pen and paper in hand, writing down corrections for her daughters and criticisms of the other dancers. If Fan met Charles, she would certainly take it upon herself to share those opinions. She had done it in the past with other artistic directors; Charles’ experience or position be damned, she would do it again.

It was for this reason, among many others, that Jane had avoided confessing the relationship to her mother. Unfortunately, she had let it slip to Charles that Fan would be in town for Nutcracker. Jane knew what their mother was capable of saying. There was no way she was letting Charles meet Fan Bennet.

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Elizabeth stood in the wings, rising up and down on the tips of her pointe shoes. Louisa Hurst as the Snow Queen was propped up in the air, her King and ex-husband, Bill Hurst, gingerly balancing her over his head with one arm as he walked off stage. The audience applauded, and Elizabeth waited for the first high wind notes of the Waltz of the Snowflakes. The other dancers in the wings shifted nervously, too, pinching each other’s arms and whispering “Merde” for good luck.

No matter how many times Elizabeth performed, the pent-up excitement and nervousness of dancing on stage never failed to affect her. They were in the final week of a seven-week run of Nutcracker, but tonight her heart raced even faster, her hands clammier than usual. Tonight, her mother had come all the way from Michigan to watch her and her sister dance.

With her cue nearing, Elizabeth inhaled deeply, cast off her everyday persona, and prepared to become a Snowflake. Dancing on stage was such a vastly different experience than dancing in a studio. The perspective was much broader, the stage stretched out several yards into the wings, and the mirror in front was replaced with rows and rows of faces. Lights could blind and drain a dancer. Grooves in the floor could trip her. Dancing on stage was like walking through an intersection blind. The dancers needed to have the steps, the music, the sequence of the dance etched into their muscles. Their heads needed to be free of doubt, free of anything, really. The dance needed to be automatic, the ultimate nothingness.

Inhaling, Elizabeth leapt on stage. Bodies whizzed by. She heard pages of sheet music being turned by the orchestra. On stage, a dancer whispered through her teeth, “Slow down, Maestro.” A bead of sweat tickled Elizabeth’s temple as it rolled down her skin. She counted out the one-two-three rhythm of the waltz, the steps coming from her body in time to the tempo.

The dance continued, formations made, poses struck. The final sequence of the dance, of the act, was upon them. Elizabeth braced herself for the fake snow, confetti, and glitter that would fall from overhead to make it seem as if it were really snowing. She hated this part. In the dance world, effects like this were an occupational hazard. Elizabeth had slipped too many times to count on the silver confetti, and one dancer had to be pulled from the Waltz of the Flowers in Act Two when a piece of glitter fell into her eye, and she couldn’t open it.

The snow fell, and Elizabeth and the rest of the snowflakes posed in their formations, then spun on the balls of their feet to run off stage, one after the other, in a haze of white tulle and confetti.

Act One was over. Everyone in Act Two kept running off of the backstage area, and into the dressing rooms, where many would change in order to dance in other parts of the ballet. Elizabeth simply had to get dressed and wait for her mother at the front of the theater. Helping Jane brush the glitter out of her bun and hook up her pink tutu for Waltz of the Flowers, Elizabeth stayed backstage only until the second act began, then gathered her things and headed for an empty seat in the back of the theater.

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“Oh, Janey, you were so wonderful. The most beautiful one up there. And you, too, Lizzy,” their mother gushed when they were outside after the performance. Jane and Elizabeth carried matching bouquets of carnations, supplied by their mother. “But, who was the girl in front of you in Waltz of the Flowers, Jane? The very tall one with the ugly feet. She was absolutely turned in(1) the whole time, and the ugliest smile I’ve ever seen on a dancer.”

Fan Bennet was a typical backstage mother. She had also been a dancer when she was young, but was forced to give it up by a despotic father who believed dancing was a silly hobby that wouldn’t pay the bills. Fan had decided on the day Jane was born to give her daughter what Fan herself had been denied: a chance to dance professionally. A year later came Elizabeth, and Fan’s determination was solidified.

She had enrolled them together in ballet lessons when Jane and Elizabeth were six and five, respectively. She had pushed them incessantly, forcing dance videos and books upon them every Christmas, fighting with their teachers to put them on pointe early, despite their teacher’s insistence that the bones in their feet weren’t yet fully developed. She had stayed through their dance lessons, observing through the tinted window of the lobby. For performances, she had been a staple backstage, always available to sew pointe shoe ribbons, help a dancer with her fake eyelashes, or offer words of good luck before the show began. Fan was, at the same time, beloved and resented by all.

Behavior like this had always embarrassed Jane and Elizabeth as children, but it seemed that even when the sisters had grown up and become professionals, their mother would still be their mother.

“…and Louisa Hurst was in rare form tonight, I must say. She could barely hit the turns in Sugar Plum Fairy variation…”

Both girls sandwiched their mother as they walked through the courtyard of Lincoln Center, listening silently as she offered her comments on everything from the dancing, to the lighting, to the orchestra.

In the dark, two figures hurriedly walked up the steps towards them. As they got closer, to both Jane and Elizabeth’s horror, the figures revealed themselves as Charles Bingley and William Darcy. Charles’ face lit up upon seeing Jane, and his eyes darted to the petite woman with frosted blonde hair standing next to her.

“Jane, Liz! Wonderful performances tonight,” Charles exclaimed, smiling mostly at Jane.

“Thank you,” Jane replied, her eyes shifting over to her mother. Fan read Dance Magazine often enough to know both men. Her eyes lit up, and both Jane and Elizabeth cringed.

“Oh my! Charles Bingley and William Darcy in the flesh,” she cooed. Elizabeth inhaled slowly, bracing herself. She would leave the introductions to Jane, who made them swiftly and professionally. Charles smiled and shook the elder Ms. Bennet’s hand vigorously. William remained further back, not offering a hand, nod, or smile. He simply looked over his shoulder at the stream of taxis whizzing by. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether she should be livid or grateful at his indifference.

“Mr. Bingley, I was just telling the girls about my opinions on Clara’s costume. Don’t you think it would be much better, if instead of...”

Elizabeth’s face burned in the cold evening air. Charles listened politely, nodding in agreement every so often. Still, Elizabeth couldn’t bear to look over to Jane, who she knew was probably even more mortified. By this time, William Darcy, not even bothering to hide his distaste, stared in open-jawed revulsion at Fan Bennet. He had one eyebrow cocked, his whole face a portrait of disbelief.

“...that way, she’ll be able to get her arabesque higher just before Waltz of the Snowflakes. Really, her arabesque was too low. What do you think, Mr. Bingley?”

Charles nodded, the obliging smile never leaving his face. “I think that might be a good idea, Mrs. Bennet. I’ll have to discuss it with Sir William Lucas, of course, but perhaps we might be able to work something out for next year.”

Elizabeth saw William gawk at his friend and roll his eyes heavenward. She quickly snapped her head down to her sneakers, the pounding of her heart drowning out the traffic. She had never been this humiliated by her mother. Did Fan Bennet have no shame? In front of her were two of the most important figures in contemporary American dance, and she was speaking to them as if they were Mr. Bates, their teacher back in Kalamazoo, Michigan.

“Oh, and Mr. Darcy, it’s an honor to meet you, too,” Fan chirped. “No! No, no, no, no, no,” Elizabeth’s mind screamed. This needed to be stopped immediately.

“Okay, Mom, I’m sure Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy must be on their way back to the theater. Probably busy with post-performance...things,” Elizabeth interrupted before William could make any reply.

Charles smiled, and William turned to walk away.

“Not at all!” Charles insisted. “I just forgot my glove in the theater.”

William halted and again glared at his friend, a look that was not lost on Elizabeth.

Fan giggled and turned her attention back to the choreographer. “You know, Mr. Darcy, I had the biggest crush on you when you were still dancing. Oh, but don’t tell my husband. Well, he’s my ex-husband now. Oh, but then I guess it really wouldn’t matter if he knew, now would it?”

William knit his brow as Fan tittered away. Mrs. Bennet continued, “And now you’ve become something of a famous choreographer. Good, good. My daughters are wonderful dancers, Mr. Darcy. I think they could give your choreography a little bit more oomph.”

Elizabeth couldn’t bear to look at his face, instead turning to the traffic rushing up Columbus Avenue. Now her mother was soliciting them and insulting William Darcy’s choreography at the same time. Wonderful. Could this get any more humiliating?

It could.

“I do believe they’re already in my piece,” he said. “In the corps.” He stressed the word corps, giving the comment an edge that made Elizabeth snap her head up and glare at him. Fortunately, her mother did not catch the bite in his tone.

“Oh, wonderful! Well, perhaps you’d like a few suggestions on...”

This time it was Jane’s turn to interrupt. “Well, Mom, we’d better be getting back home. Uh, you know how unsafe New York can be late at night.”

For Fan, paranoia outweighed flattery. Starting slightly, she nodded in agreement, completely forgetting her previous train of thought. “Yes, yes. They live in Harlem. I tell them it’s really not safe, but do they listen? I’m sorry, Mr. Darcy. We’ll have to chat later.”

“Yes,” he sneered.

Keeping her eyes averted, Elizabeth grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled the woman away. Jane followed with the other arm. “Well, goodnight Charles. Goodnight, Mr. Darcy,” the older sister called over her shoulder.

“Did you ever see such handsome men? And I hear they’re both loaded...” were the last words William heard Fan Bennet say before her daughters yanked her around the corner and out of earshot.

Charles smiled to William. “Nice lady,” he said.

William snorted in response.

“She meant well, at least.”

“Well, I’ll give her one thing,” William said, turning and making his way to the theater. “I’ve had all kinds of dancers sidle up to me for roles, but that woman holds the distinction of being the first mother who’s tried that trick. Wonder if she’d sleep with me if it meant her daughters could get a better part.”

“Oh, Will!” Charles exclaimed. “Just because their mother’s like that, doesn’t mean they are.”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Charles paused and watched his friend as he walked a few feet ahead of him. Shaking his head, he followed. The William Darcy of five years ago would have laughed, cracked a few jokes at the old woman’s expense, and then invited Charles out to some newly opened lounge in SoHo. Since William’s return to New York City and the company, Charles noticed just how rarely his friend ever smiled. William had been brazen, often arrogant, but always magnetic. Now, he reminded Charles of unused, unpolished silver. He had not seen much of William in the five years the choreographer had traveled across the country, creating dances for different companies. Had his friend changed so much in that span of time?

Charles frowned, wondering at the change, hoping it was merely the culture shock of returning to New York City in winter.

Both men crossed the courtyard and headed back into the theater, its crystal chandelier still glittering from inside the tall windows of the lobby.

Notes :

1. Turned in- Being "turned in" or "turned out" refers to the line a dancer's feet or hips make. A dancer who is completely turned out will have her feet in a 180-degree line, with both heels touching. A dancer who is completely turned in will have both feet parallel with each other. In ballet, having 180-degree turnout is ideal.

Page 3 of 4

Chapter Three

William was in the center of Studio B, staring at his feet, thinking of what came next. He had reached a dead-end. He didn’t know how to get his dancers off stage and get the principal dancer on stage. Well, it wasn’t really a matter of not knowing how; it was more like he suddenly didn’t care. Every so often, utter indifference overpowered William. Did it really matter? He could have his dancers clip their toenails on stage, and the critics would call it a brilliant feat of post-modern dance. For once, he wanted them to rip him apart, give him something to prove. As it was, this piece felt like all of the others - pointless.

The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts, and Caroline Bingley slinked into the studio.

“Hello, William,” she said, purposely dropping her voice to a husky drawl. He turned his head to acknowledge her.

“Caroline.”

In her street clothes, a beige Calvin Klein turtleneck with tight Seven jeans, she walked over to where he was standing.

“I haven’t said a proper hello to you yet,” she said.

He stared down at her, with no intention of saying anything. Caroline’s bleach blonde hair hung down around her shoulders.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight. To catch up.”

William knew exactly what she wanted to catch. “I can’t.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“You know why I can’t, and that’s the end.”

Caroline frowned. “Don’t worry about Charles. He’s a big boy. I think he’ll understand if his sister wants to be a big girl.”

William folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her. “There are other reasons besides Charles.”

“All of which I’ve heard before and none of which are convincing,” she said. William tsked and walked away towards the stereo. It had been this way for almost as long as William could remember - blatant overtures that he had spent three years avoiding. But in one post-cast party’s drunken haze, he had allowed himself to be seduced. An action he was still paying for seven years later.

“I’m trying to choreograph here, Caroline,” he said sharply, encouraging her to leave.

“Can I be of any assistance?” she inquired, snaking her way over to the far corner of the room where William stood with his back turned towards her.

“No. I choreograph alone.”

Caroline huffed. “You’re too uptight for your own good, William.”

Raising his eyes to the mirror, William glowered at her reflection. “I’ll see you on Friday, Ms. Bingley.”

Caroline chuckled, knowing when to admit defeat. She raised the corner of her lip. “No strings attached, William. Call me if you change your mind.”

She breezed out of the studio quietly, leaving William annoyed and more disoriented than when he began. Scratching his head, he tried to regain focus on the piece. How would he get the dancers off stage? He found no way to integrate the corps, which functioned in this piece like the Chorus in a Greek tragedy, into the pas de deux of the two lovers. He had not even begun to sketch out the pas de deux in his head. His vision was of something primal, sensuous. The dancers would slink, arch, and twist themselves into knots and somehow right themselves. But he didn’t know where to begin and simply stared at his rigid posture in the mirror.

The New York Times had called his works “fistfuls of raging, repressed desire.” While he did not set out consciously to create dance brimming with sexuality, it came out inevitably. It was his trademark. No matter what the subject, time period, music, or costuming, there was always touching, always longing gestures, always the suggestion of sex. Audiences loved to be titillated. But recently William’s works had become darker, infused with a sexual energy that edged on licentiousness. The more he choreographed, the less release he found. After five years of the same consistent thread running through all of his creations, William found himself strung so tightly that he wanted nothing more than to simply slump to the wooden floor, close his eyes, and give up.

He approached the mirror and studied his face. Fine lines had emerged around his eyes. Twice in the past month he had yanked out a stray gray hair from the mass of dark brown waves on top of his head. William frowned. He had grown old. Once he could no longer dance, he felt the heaviness of time dragging down the skin on his face. The wrinkles didn’t show now, but give them a few years. He sighed and sunk into the chair at the front of the room, unable to envision anything.

After several minutes of white thought, William saw visions of his younger self bolting down the diagonal in a whirlwind series of leaps, turns, and beats of the leg. As a dancer, he had been a completely different person - cocky and brash. He had smiled more. Definitely had more sex. There had been nothing more exhilarating than catapulting himself three feet off the floor in a grand jeté, whirling around in a quadruple pirouette. Nothing more gratifying than the explosion of applause after a perfectly executed variation. And now it was gone.

In envisioning his younger days, William suddenly thought of Elizabeth Bennet. Why she should have popped into his head at that moment, he couldn’t be sure. He thought of her dancing. She was still clumsy in some movements, but she danced with a fierce, simmering energy. Of course, her dancing was tempered by the delicacy required of ballerinas, but in her eyes he saw a passion for expression that he, too, had once felt. Elizabeth Bennet, he could plainly tell, loved to dance.

William rose again and paced towards the center of the room. She definitely had a strength for balancés, those rocking steps done in a waltz rhythm. Perhaps less vertical movements and more horizontal would work better in this section. He attempted an impromptu phrase of balancés and piqués, and ending with a series of chaînés. It fit with the music; it would work. Suddenly, William had direction. He got out his notebook and scribbled down the steps, envisioning their execution by a petite corps de ballet girl with a penchant for haughty lifts of the chin and a pair of cold, glittering eyes.

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It was the closing night of Nutcracker. As such, the entire company, administration, and staff would be present at the cast party afterwards. Elizabeth was relieved to have the ballet finally over. Nutcracker may have been a favorite with audiences for its kid-friendly content and holiday theme, but most dancers detested the ballet. Elizabeth thought that Tchaikovsky must have written the score after eating one too many candy canes. The music was much too chipper, especially the second act, the dancing uninspiring and disjointed from any kind of story line. At BTNY, they had been working on the ballet since October, which made nearly four months of the same music, the same steps. Elizabeth looked forward to moving on to the spring repertoire. The company would be performing Giselle, not one of her favorites, but at least not Nutcracker.

With a company of tired dancers, tonight’s cast party promised to be tamer than usual. Sir William Lucas had hired a jazz quartet and rented out a restaurant by the theater. It would be mellow, a relaxing way for the dancers to wind down from four months of Waltz of the Flowers.

Backstage after the last performance, Elizabeth slipped into the dress she always wore to these parties, a simple navy gown with a gracefully low neckline. She had bought it on sale at Century 21. Tonight marked its fourth appearance, and she wondered when someone would notice that she always wore the same gown to these events.

As she had only performed in Act One, Elizabeth arrived early at the restaurant. The reception was already alive with music. About one quarter of the company was there, mostly staff and administration. The rest had been in the second act and would come as soon as stage makeup was removed and buns taken out. Slowly, that night’s performers began trickling in. Jane appeared in a red Chinese-style gown, cut high in the neck, but hugging her lean body.

“Hey, Lizzy. You look gorgeous, as always.”

“In the same dress, as always.”

“No one will know,” Jane said, smiling.

Seeing a tall, blonde man weaving his way through the guests towards them, Elizabeth looked down and mumbled to Jane under her breath, “Charles Bingley, incoming,” before he appeared before them.

“Hello, Liz. Jane, you were wonderful tonight. Congratulations on one more Nutcracker out of the way.” he said, a radiant smile lighting up his face.

“Thank you. You too, Charles.”

“Is your mother still in town?”

Both sisters colored, remembering the humiliating scene from the week before. “No, she did us the favor of leaving after a weekend,” Elizabeth said dryly.

“Oh, no. She was charming,” Charles insisted.

“Try living with her for eighteen years. The charm wears off real quick.”

“She seemed to know quite a lot about the ballet.”

“She used to dance when she was young,” Jane explained.

“And she has ten years of experience finagling her daughters’ way through the dance world. She’s a pro,” joked Elizabeth.

Charles laughed.

“You always say it like it is, Liz, no matter how devastating.”

Elizabeth winked and smiled back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I couldn’t mean it otherwise,” Charles smiled, but then shifted his eyes to her sister. “Mind if I steal your sister away?”

“Only if you bring her back before it’s time to go.”

Charles smiled and offered his arm to Jane, who wove her own into it. The two sauntered off to a private corner of the restaurant, leaving Elizabeth to pluck a glass of wine off of a tray balanced on a waiter’s open palm.

She raised the glass to her lips, scanning the room. Lydia had passed up the party for a new nightclub in the Meatpacking District, Katherine was nowhere to be seen, and Charlotte, who was famous for her primping, was probably still backstage with the curling iron. Elizabeth sighed and figured that the buffet table would have to keep her company for the time being. As she continued to gaze around the room, her eyes alighted on the figure of William Darcy listening to Sir William Lucas and Caroline Bingley blab on about something, but strangely, his eyes were fixed firmly on her, stormy in their intensity. Elizabeth quickly looked away, folded her arms across her chest, and took a long sip of wine.

Slowly, so as not to be noticed, she let her eyes rove back to where he stood. He was still staring at her. This time, Elizabeth let her gaze remain on him, and for one heightened moment, they stared at each other. Finally, Elizabeth spun slowly on the heel of her shoe and walked away to a corner of the room where William Darcy would not be able to cast a critical eye upon her.

As she criss-crossed through huddles of partygoers, Elizabeth realized that her heart was beating nervously. Even outside of the studio, William Darcy’s eyes still brimmed full of condemnation. She wondered what it could have been now - not putting her heels down as she walked? Perhaps a less than ramrod posture? Frowning, she muttered, “Screw it” and emptied the rest of the drink down her throat.

Glancing once more to where the choreographer stood, Elizabeth flushed when she saw him continuing to stare. She turned away angrily. Rubbing her nose, Elizabeth made sure she didn’t have any food stuck to it. Nothing. Elizabeth shirked even further back into the crowd, heading over to the buffet table.

Sir William rattled on to Caroline Bingley about the line-up for the spring season. As William paced slowly by, the director had stopped him and dragged him into the conversation. Parties soured William’s mood and he preferred to pass the time pondering how much he hated them. Nevertheless, William admired and loved the artistic director like a father, and so entertained the older gentleman. Sir William had been the artistic director during William’s rise to ballet glory, and had sustained him through his knee injury and the demise of his career. But the man, with his affected hand gestures and penchant for gossiping, could grate on the nerves. And Caroline Bingley - nothing else needed to be said about her. He needed to escape.

“...and Darcy’s piece is going to be it, Caroline dear. It’s going to be it. It will make you the next Gelsey Kirkland. And if you and Darcy here will ever just get together like I’ve been saying, it will be the best PR the company’s seen in years.”

Caroline laughed and scratched William’s bicep playfully with her long nails. Sucking in his breath, William stiffened and drew back his shoulders in an instinctive defensive reaction.

“Excuse me,” William said, patting Sir William on the back. At events like these, William regretted giving up alcohol four years ago. He recalled his younger dancing days, when he used to put away glasses of champagne and martinis, when parties like this had been fun. William headed to the buffet, hoping that if alcohol couldn’t save him, perhaps food and a solitary corner could.

Although if he were completely honest with himself, he would also admit that several seconds earlier he had seen Elizabeth Bennet retreat in that direction.

For reasons that puzzled him, the corps girl had occupied his thoughts more than corps girls usually did. Her dancing, while gracious, was not stellar. She was simple - just some girl from suburban Michigan. He had checked her file. And while she was certainly pretty in a girlish kind of way, she definitely lacked the sophistication of the women he usually dated. So, he knew it could not have been admiration of her talent, nor could it be the intrigue of sex, that attracted him.

He stared not to admire, but to observe. There had to have been some particular reason why he had choreographed nearly a minute of the first movement while thinking only of her. There was also an excellent explanation as to why he hadn’t been able to peel his eyes off of her during tonight’s performance. After countless Nutcracker performances, he couldn’t explain why this particular woman had grabbed him. Perhaps she resembled some old friend or distant relative?

Thus, he stared. And when he saw her pull back into the confines of a dark and isolated corner, in an immediate reaction, he followed.

Elizabeth saw the choreographer break away from his companions and head in her direction. She observed the way he walked, his feet rising and landing on the stone tile, how he kept his shoulders high and pulled back, one hand in his pocket, his eyes focused down intently. He was heading right towards her. Panicking, Elizabeth turned around, plucked up a plate, and pretended to be absorbed in the tray of fruit. William Darcy slid right up to her and surveyed the food as well. When she realized her folly, Elizabeth’s stomach lurched.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, both inspecting the fruit platter. Elizabeth stabbed a few pieces of pineapple with a toothpick and dropped them on her plate. She could see from the corner of her eye that William Darcy was oblivious to anything but the food. She doubted that he even recognized her without her leotard and bun. His self-absorption came as welcome relief, and Elizabeth sighed to herself. It was foolish to think he had crossed the room to purposely seek her out.

Just as she was about to back away from the buffet, she heard him speak.

“You’re in my piece, but I don’t know your name.” Of course, William knew her name, but he very well couldn’t let her know that.

His voice, when not fighting for authority over the music or filled with boredom or disdain, caught her by surprise. It reverberated richly in the several feet of space between them.

Elizabeth looked up at him and replied, “Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding but keeping his focus straight ahead on the fruit. He darted his eyes to the right where Elizabeth’s neck craned past him to the center of the room. It was the look of a woman planning her escape. William Darcy detested small talk, and small talk with a corps member was unthinkable. They could have nothing of worth to say, but he felt compelled to get a few more pieces of information out of this Elizabeth Bennet. William needed her to disappoint him: an overeager personality, nervous giggling, or the overuse of the words “like” or “you know,” anything that would situate the young woman firmly into the brackets of “young and silly corps girl” so that he could get on with the business of being a serious choreographer and not some obsessed old man.

With a bland look, he turned to fully face her. She only turned her head in response, staring back at him with a look of equally feigned indifference. “And when did you enter the company, Elizabeth?” He said it as if he were an uncle asking his little niece what she got from the Easter Bunny.

“About six months ago,” she answered, popping a grape in her mouth. The answer elicited no response from William; he continued to consider her face. She wore no makeup except for mascara and lipstick, slightly inappropriate for an affair such as this. However, she had pretty features and smooth skin. Upon closer examination, William concluded she didn’t really need any other makeup, black-tie gathering or no.

Waiting for him to fill in the next obligatory piece of the conversation, Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and the corners of her lips. She turned her shoulders, and they were now both facing each other.

With Elizabeth wearing that gown, it was inevitable that William’s gaze would fall lower. She was a petite woman and he towered over her. The difference in height and the cut of her dress afforded William with a lovely view, one he wasn’t normally treated to at these parties. Most dancers were completely flat-chested. Over the years, William had learned to shut off his desire for a nice pair of breasts, but tonight, Elizabeth’s were reminding him that he was not yet totally desensitized. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her décolletage. Discerning where his eyes roamed, Elizabeth flushed and narrowed her eyes.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself, Mr. Darcy.”

Inhaling sharply, William nearly choked on the pineapple he was chewing. He coughed for a few seconds and cleared his throat.

“I mean,” Elizabeth said, smiling slyly, “isn’t this a great party?”

Holding a closed fist over his mouth, he cleared his throat. “Do you really think so?”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and turned her face to the crowd. “I do, yes. Do you not like cast parties, then?”

“After so many of them, no. Same food, same company, same conversations...”

“Hmm, then maybe we shouldn’t converse. I wouldn’t want to subject you to such predictability,” she said, a smile of disapproval on her face.

“Hm,” he grunted in response. Looking away, she rolled her eyes to no one in particular and looked back at him. The choreographer wore a severe look as he perused the crowd. A waiter breezed by them holding a try laden with wine glasses. Elizabeth stopped him and chose a glass of red.

He stared at her as she brought it to her mouth and sipped lightly. Licking her lips, she gazed out to the crowded restaurant, hoping her silence would provoke him to leave. Elizabeth was sure she had offended him. Why he hadn’t walked off in a huff, she hadn’t figured out yet. The silence dragged on for a full minute, the din of the room engulfing them. Shifting uncomfortably, Elizabeth glanced up at the choreographer, only to find his intense gaze squarely on her mouth. She started and frowned. Yet, he did not look away except to raise his stare from her lips to her eyes. Elizabeth added bizarre and creepy to her list of the man’s faults. It was time to end this awkward encounter.

“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy. I’ve just spotted a...” she began before the booming voice of Sir William Lucas interrupted her.

“Hungry old man, coming through!” he laughed to no one in particular. “Darcy! I was wondering where you ran off to. I see we had the same thing in mind.” The round man wagged his eyebrows at the food. “Oh and hello, Miss Elizabeth. Enjoying yourself, I hope.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Lucas. This is a wonderful spread. You’ll have the fattest dancers in New York if you keep on with buffets like this.”

“Ho ho!” Lucas said, rubbing his generous stomach. “We’ve already got the fattest artistic director, eh? Well, Darcy, don’t just stand there staring. Get some food! Elizabeth, I’ve known this boy for almost twenty years, and he gets more and more miserable at every cast party we throw. He doesn’t dance, he doesn’t talk. He just stares.”

Elizabeth looked away from the Artistic Director and raised her focus to William Darcy. A smile melted her features. “Mr. Darcy seems to be a very...eager observer of things,” she commented, casting her eyes away for a brief moment.

William’s face colored at the veiled reference to his earlier observation of her cleavage.

“Yes, yes, very eager. But he should save that for the studio. Not parties!” Sir William piled several strawberries on a plate as he spoke.

Once again, Elizabeth smiled. Sir William’s teasing manner emboldened her, and she looked straight up into the smoldering gray of William Darcy’s eyes. “Mr. Darcy is certainly a keen observer in the studio as well. He picks up all mistakes, no matter how miniscule.”

William blinked and straightened his posture. Being a connoisseur of the art himself, William recognized her sublimely veiled disparagement. “I’ve always supposed, Ms. Bennet, that to be a successful artist not only involves creative inspiration, but also an eye for perfection.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows while sipping her wine, sensing the barb behind the platitude. “And you are, of course, successful because you excel at both,” she countered.

William bristled and arched an eyebrow at her. To his shock, she mirrored him, adding a lopsided, knowing smirk to her features.

Sir William turned back towards them, his plate loaded with fruit, cold cuts, and mini-quiches.

“Yes, yes. That is all well and good. But this jazz band didn’t come cheap and no one’s dancing yet!” Lucas pouted.

Elizabeth’s stomach flopped inside of her, knowing a comment like that would only be followed with an encouragement to get out on the floor.

“The music’s wonderful, Mr. Lucas. I’d love to dance, but I have a huge blister and these heels are killing me. You’ll have to excuse me,” she remarked, ending any suggestion of dancing that the director might have made.

Sir William looked down at Elizabeth’s feet. “You women do have a way of torturing yourselves, don’t you? Pointe shoes, high heels. You know in China, they bind their feet up to give themselves high arches. It’s really quite ridiculous. What you girls do to your feet!”

“Lucas, they ended that practice almost a hundred years ago,” William said dryly.

“Ho, ho. So they did! What do I know, I’m just an old man, eh?”

Elizabeth saw William inhale in irritation and take a long sip from the tumbler. Sir William, too, noticed his silent chastisement and winked towards Elizabeth. In a hushed whisper, he joked, “William, you see, holds a very high opinion of his opinions.”

Looking to the choreographer, Elizabeth frowned in response. The tall man gazed out into the crowd, away from them. In all of his severity, William Darcy, she had to admit, was an extremely handsome man. He looked like a Calvin Klein model, magnetic in his stormy sulk. Yet, she thought his surliness, not only towards herself but towards the happy-go-lucky director, simply rude. He may not have enjoyed the company, but to plainly reveal it, showed a lack of manners more appropriate in a toddler than a grown man accustomed to gatherings like these. Turning back to Sir William, Elizabeth smiled.

“I hope you’ll excuse me. I just saw a few dancers who I wanted to congratulate. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“You too, darling,” he replied, smiling at her.

William returned his gaze down to Elizabeth. For a flash of a second, she held it with a glare of her own and then turned away. William watched her leave, the image of her eyes seared into his own. They were hazel with a darker brown band around the pupil, framed by brown lashes, not long, but naturally curled, and expressive eyebrows. Eyes that crackled with something, he couldn’t tell what, though. A look like that could only mean two things: come hither, or fuck off.

As Sir William continued to mumble something about the mini-quiches, William focused his gaze on Elizabeth Bennet standing across the room. His breathing, he noticed, had quickened, but he was not angry.

She stood, laughing with a group of soloists. A principal dancer came up to the group, and he saw Elizabeth smile hello and offer the woman a congratulatory kiss on the cheek. William watched her. Normally, ambitious corps de ballet members tried to ingratiate themselves with older dancers. There were always one or two of them, the social butterflies, who cared more for company politics than the dance.

He sensed none of this in Elizabeth. She didn’t fawn, and because of it, they accepted her as an equal, turning to her for opinions and laughter. She commented when she needed to, never interjecting a response simply to be noticed. Another principal dancer, a respected colleague during William’s dancing days, pulled Elizabeth from the group to introduce her to his partner, a dancer with New York City Ballet. She chit-chatted with them before spying her friend, the tall girl in his piece, and excusing herself.

Elizabeth ebbed and flowed with corps dancers, principals, staff, and musicians alike. William stood in the corner with a half-empty glass of ginger ale.

“You must be lonely, over here all by yourself,” came a voice whispered into his ear. He jerked his neck around to see Caroline, the stem of a champagne glass held delicately in her fingers. Clenching his jaw, William turned back.

“Alone, but not lonely.”

Caroline stepped around to join him on his right side, missing the hint. “One too many cast parties, William?”

“Perhaps.”

“Great minds think alike. These people are so boring.”

“Not all of them.”

“Oh, no?”

“No. The company has improved since I last remember.

Caroline laughed a throaty laugh. “And so now you like these things? How the great William Darcy has changed! And whose company, may I ask, has changed your opinion?”

Nodding his head over to the far end of the room, he replied, “Hers.”

Caroline followed his gaze. There were only two people over where William had indicated. The really tall girl in the corps, and the short one with the boobs. Caroline frowned.

“The giraffe?”

“No. The other one, Elizabeth Bennet.”

Caroline’s frown morphed into a look of shock and then disgust. “Her? She’s in the corps de ballet, William.”

He shrugged and kept his gaze to the far end of the room. When Caroline saw she would get no further reaction from him, she chuckled and patted his shoulder. If William enjoyed the company of corps dancers, then she would let him to it. “I don’t know what they did to you in San Francisco, William...”

Turning away, she shook her head and made for the bar.

“Jane’s nuts if she doesn’t think politics belongs in the ballet world. Tell your sister she’s crazy.”

“Charlotte!” Elizabeth groaned. “Jane’s not with him to score better parts. You know she doesn’t think like that.”

Charlotte shrugged. “But others do. I’m sure Charles does. He’s been in the business long enough. How do you know he’s not using Jane?”

“For what? Her money? Or maybe it’s all that influence she wields,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.

“That’s not what I mean. Maybe he thinks she’s sleeping with him just for a better part. How much you wanna bet she gets promoted?”

“If she does, it won’t be because she’s dating Charles Bingley, Charlotte.” A hint of defensiveness crept into Elizabeth’s voice. Her sister was a good dancer and would succeed without having to hit the casting couch.

“Liz, you know I think Jane’s great. But other people...”

“I don’t really pay attention to what other people say.”

Charlotte gave her friend a doubtful look and frowned. “You cared about what Mr. Darcy said the other day.”

“That’s different. That wasn’t gossip. It was a comment about my career made by a choreographer. Of course, I’m going to care about that.”

Charlotte nodded slowly, concealing another disbelieving look from her friend and scanned the room. “So then I’m sure you won’t care that he’s staring at you again.”

Elizabeth snapped her head past her friend to where the choreographer stood alone in the far corner of the room. She met his stony eyes and quickly averted her own. “I think I pissed him off. I said some things back there that I probably shouldn’t have.”

“He doesn’t look angry,” Charlotte reasoned.

Elizabeth glanced over to him again and then back to her friend. “It’s a shame a man that hot can be so utterly creepy.”

“I don’t know about creepy, but hot, yes. A bit old though, no?”

“He’s old and rude and arrogant like you would not believe. You know what he said to me back there? ‘I’m a great artist because I’m creative and have an eye for detail.’ Implying that I don’t. Jerk.”

Charlotte shrugged. “It’s not like he doesn’t have anything to brag about.”

“For someone with so much to brag about, he has terrible manners. He shouldn’t come to parties if all he’s going to do is glower the whole night.”

Glancing once more in his direction, she caught William staring at her again. He casually looked away and began pacing slowly around the edge of the room. Seeing that, Elizabeth pulled her friend to the center of the restaurant, behind an enormous flower arrangement. For the rest of the night, Elizabeth ensured she was always engaged in conversation, never alone, and thus never exposed to horrible possibility of another conversation with William Darcy.

Chapter Four

Elizabeth had a fear of lists. They always, inevitably, disappointed her. The unfeeling white computer paper, t