The dancers promise, p.1
The Dancer's Promise, page 1
For Sophie, I am so lucky to have a big sister like you
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART TWO
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
PART THREE
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Also by Olivia Horrox …
About the Author
About Embla Books
First published in Great Britain in 2024 by
Bonnier Books UK Limited
4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, Sweden Copyright © Olivia Horrox, 2024
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Olivia Horrox to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781471413179
This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisher
Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
PART ONE
‘She’ll go and fall in love, and there’s an end of peace and fun, and cosy times together.’
– Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
Chapter 1
LONDON
Autumn 1936
Somebody is finally moving into the old Draper house. I see the removal vans come parading down our leafy residential street as I lean out of my bedroom window. The sight of all those vehicles causes me to lean out, right over the window box, my long hair falling over the last flurry of late summer carnations. The Draper house has sat quiet and empty for as long as I can remember, and I have always wondered what it must look like inside. Is all the old furniture still in there, covered in dust sheets just ready to be unmasked? Or is it an empty shell, stripped bare of any memories of the old Drapers? My sister Grace and I used to make up stories about what happened to the Drapers. Stories from the obscure to the downright grizzly, but it looks like today we might finally get some answers.
I lean out a little further over the window box as the removal men start unloading the vans and carrying in the furniture, all of which looks brand new. They haul in plush velvet armchairs, gilded birdcages, dark mahogany bookcases, and dozens of tropical-looking plants. My curiosity intensifies, and I am hoping to catch a first glimpse of the new owners, but I don’t see anybody out of the ordinary on the street below. I spy Mrs Arbuthnot from number twelve quick-walking down the street, her handbag swinging vigorously as she clamours to be the first neighbour to introduce herself. I roll my eyes and rest my chin on my hand, then watch with mild amusement as she looks around a little absently for want of someone to greet, but there is no sign of the newcomers. She keeps trying to stop the removal men and ask them questions, but they just shrug and brush her off. Oh, why does Grace have to be at work today of all days? I can’t believe she is missing this momentous occasion, after so many years of the two of us wondering about this mysterious house. This is quite possibly the most interesting thing that has happened on this street since … well, probably since our father died and everything that has become of our family since.
‘Clementine?’ My mother’s voice rasps from down the hall and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. She calls my name again and I feel my jaw tighten.
‘Coming, Mother!’ I call as I tear myself away from the hubbub on the street below and quietly close the sash window.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes and plaster a pleasant smile on my face before making my way to her bedroom. There is a tray outside Mother’s door with a rather sad-looking bowl of long-cold porridge and glass of juice, and with a jolt, I remember Grace asking me to make sure I gave Mother her breakfast when I woke up. She must have left it here for me and I completely forgot. I pick up the tray and rush into her bedroom, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. The air in here is stale, and my nose twitches as I disturb the dust with every footstep. I place the tray gently across my mother’s lap, and her dark eyes narrow in her pallid face at the sight of me. My mother is in her late forties, but you would find it hard to believe, looking at her now. She is sat up in bed with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and she clasps at it with one bony hand. Her long, dark hair, now shot through with silver, is piled in a haphazard bun to the top of her head, but several matted curls have escaped their pins, giving her the look of a slightly deranged Gibson girl. In her heyday, she was a striking beauty, a trait she bequeathed to Grace, but sadly not to me. I look far more like our father, with very serious deep-set eyes and a long (perhaps slightly too long) aquiline nose. I don’t mind that Grace inherited the good looks, it makes me quite glad to know that I carry our father’s features, almost like keeping a little piece of him alive. To me, that is worth far more than a pretty face.
‘Did you call?’ I ask sweetly.
‘You know very well I did,’ she barks, her eyebrows knitting together in disapproval. ‘Is that my breakfast? I’m half-starved by now. What have you been doing all morning, selfish girl? And what is happening outside?’
‘Someone is moving into the Draper house,’ I inform her, and her eyes briefly widen in surprise. Even though Mother hasn’t left the house for ten years, she still understands the relevance of this news.
‘Who are they?’ she asks shrewdly.
‘No sign of them yet,’ I reply and she nods pensively.
‘Let me know when there is, won’t you?’
‘Of course, Mother.’ I respond automatically, bowing my head a little, and a rare smile spreads across her lips.
‘There’s a good girl,’ she says almost fondly, and I hate how much the compliment makes my heart swell. She returns her attention to her breakfast and I linger in the doorway, unsure if I should stay and try to make some more conversation or slink away. I am frozen on the spot with indecision when she looks up at me again with her usual unfeeling glance. ‘You can go now.’
I sidle out of the room and close the door softly behind me, stopping for a moment on the landing to catch my breath. My heart is hammering in my chest so quickly that I fear I might take flight, and I clasp the worn edge of the banister for support as I make my way back to my bedroom. I shut the door behind me and return to my perch by the windowsill, but the street below has fallen silent once more, though the vans are still parked outside. I look at the time and my eyes widen with surprise as I realise it is almost midday. I hastily reach under the bed and pull out a small duffel bag, checking over the contents inside: a black tunic, a pair of knitted tights, a handful of scattered hairpins, and most importantly, two pairs of well-worn ballet shoes – my leather ballet slippers for everyday use, and my most prized possession: my satin pointe shoes. All present and correct. I fling the bag over my shoulder and step back out onto the landing, pausing outside Mother’s door once more.
‘I’m off to ballet now, Mother,’ I call through the door, listening intently for a response. ‘I’ll be back with Grace, in time for supper.’
I hear a muffled murmur of disapproval from the other side, so I fly down the stairs as quickly and quietly as my legs will carry me, ignoring the small ache her displeasure for my dancing brings about in my chest. It was always my father who encouraged me to dance as a little girl. He took both Grace and me to ballet lessons every weekend. Grace could never get on with it, but I fell in love with dancing the very first time I slipped into a pair of ballet slippers. My mother on the other hand quite simply hates the thought of me doing anything that makes me that happy or reminds me of my father. If she had the strength to get out of her bed, I am sure she would put a stop to my lessons in an instant. I already know she is counting down the days until my eighteenth birthday, at which point I will have to get a job and be forced to leave my dancing behind forever. I shake my head roughly, as if I can toss the negative thoughts from my mind. There is no use thinking about it now. A lot could happen between now and my eighteenth birthday, and I will not give up ballet without a fight, for there is no better feeling in the world than the moment when I place my hand on the barre as the piano music starts.
Chapter 2
Madame Lebedev’s School of Ballet is located in a
‘Your mother will kill you if she catches you doing that to your shoes.’ I grin as he sweeps me up into his arms and lifts me lightly off my feet. Rudi is my dance partner, so while this sort of interaction may seem odd to the occasional passer-by, to us it is second nature.
‘What she doesn’t see can’t upset her, solnyshko,’ he says in his beautiful Russian accent, with a wink. Only Rudi calls me solnyshko. He once told me it is Russian for ‘little sunshine’, and that to him, that is what I am. I can’t hear it without beaming from ear to ear, and he knows this and occasionally uses it to his advantage. ‘I was starting to think you weren’t coming,’ he continues, ‘and I can’t bear to be in there alone with all those girls, so I was waiting for you out here … You know how they get.’
I do know how they get. Almost every girl Rudi meets falls under his spell. Between his athletic physique and full head of bronze curls, he is quite striking. When you add his captivating accent to the mix, they practically fall at his perfectly turned-out feet. My experience of Rudi has been very different. I first met him the day after my father died. I was at school; Mother had insisted upon it.
‘You must never show your weakness, girls,’ she had said with a stiff upper lip. ‘People will use it to exploit you. If you must cry, do it alone in your bedroom.’
Grace nodded stoically, took my hand and walked me to school. She smiled and greeted the neighbours as we passed, she nodded sympathetically at their well wishes, she held it all together, but I felt like I was completely falling apart.
When we reached the school gates, she knelt and retrieved a handkerchief from her satchel to dab my eyes. ‘Be strong, little Clem, for Mother.’
She gave me a squeeze and walked me to my classroom. I managed to bottle everything up until lunchtime. I sat in a shady corner of the playground and bawled my eyes out. Grief tore me to shreds like I was nothing more than paper. I cried until my throat was raw with pain and my eyes strained with the effort of producing tears, but I still didn’t feel any better. My shoulders were shuddering up and down when a shadow fell over me. I looked up, bleary eyed, and there was Rudi.
He was tall for his age, even then, but he was thin and awkward. His face hadn’t grown into his long, sharp nose yet and he was all bones and odd angles. He had the most magnificent head of curls, and they shone like bronze under the dappled autumn light.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked quietly, then shook his head. ‘Obviously you are not OK. I suppose I mean do you want someone to talk to?’
I remembered Mother’s warning that people could exploit my weaknesses, but looking at this shy young boy, I couldn’t imagine he would. His grey eyes were soft and gentle as he looked down at my huddled form, then he came and sat down beside me. I could smell the soap on his skin, and something else … The spicy, smoky scent of cloves.
‘Your father died, didn’t he?’ He cut through the silence. ‘That’s what everyone is saying. Was it the influenza?’
I nodded, more than a little mortified beneath my grief that everyone was talking about me.
‘My father is dead too, but I never knew him, so I guess it’s not quite the same,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘But I still miss him. Isn’t that strange? How can you miss someone you never knew?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is I miss my father very much,’ I croaked. My throat was so sore from crying that it hurt to talk. ‘Does it ever stop hurting?’ I asked him suddenly and he looked at me in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected me to be so forthcoming with my feelings.
‘I don’t think the pain lessens …’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but you grow stronger and it becomes easier to lug around with you all day.’
‘But I’m not strong at all,’ I replied dismally.
‘You’re a ballet dancer, aren’t you? You must be stronger than you think!’
‘Not anymore. My mother says we cannot afford for me to keep dancing,’ I said, the tears welling in my eyes. As if the loss of my father was not enough, knowing I would lose the one thing that would keep him alive in my heart was killing me.
‘Well, we may be able to fix that!’ he said, brightening. ‘My mother is a ballet teacher. Maybe she can teach you and remind you how to be strong.’
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but it doesn’t solve how I would pay for my lessons,’ I said at last, my eyes casting down to my lap.
He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Just come along tomorrow after school. Let my ma see what you’ve got, then we’ll see.’
The next day changed my life. I went along to Madame Lebedev’s as Rudi had instructed; I turned up in one of my old leotards that was already getting too small and, sticking firmly to the back of the studio, I followed Madame Lebedev’s instructions to the letter. Rudi was there, dancing too, but at the front of the class with a confidence I didn’t recognise from the boy I had met at school. He kept looking back and smiling at me encouragingly. For that entire lesson, I was so focused on what I was doing, I didn’t think about my father’s death for the whole hour. When the class ended, my feet were cramping painfully, but I felt lighter in a way I hadn’t been sure I would ever feel again. Even more importantly, I felt connected to my father in a way that didn’t cause me pain. That day, I learned something very important – dancing can only ever hurt your feet, never your heart.
Rudi and I have been dancing together ever since that day, and it wasn’t long before we started spending all our time at school together. I would often go back to his small apartment above the studio after school, or before class for tea and I soon grew close with Madame Lebedev too. She never asked or pried, but I got the feeling that she knew things weren’t great for me at home, so she struck the bargain. She said she saw great potential in me, and that one day she thought I could be a magnificent ballerina if that was what I wished to be. She said that if I was serious about dancing, she would teach me everything I needed to know to get there. She only asked in return that I never forgot to mention where I learned to dance, and that as I grew older, I would help out by cleaning the studios and teaching the younger students. I agreed on the spot. I realised then, even at seven years old, that if Madame Lebedev saw potential in me, that ballet could one day be my ticket to freedom. I knew what I wanted, and I was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
I stop daydreaming about the past and focus my attention back on the present. Rudi’s eyes are smouldering as he looks at me curiously. I don’t think he even knows he is doing it. Thankfully, I have known Rudi for such a long time now, that I consider myself immune to his irresistible charms that have broken the hearts of so many other girls. That is probably why we dance so well together: years of trust, and no awkward attachments to distract us. Of course, half the girls at Madame Lebedev’s are convinced we are secretly courting; the other half think we have some sort of complicated romantic past. They assume we get all the principal roles because Rudi is the only boy in our class and Madame Lebedev’s son, and that I get to dance with him because I wormed my way into their close family circle. The real truth is that we work the hardest and we want it the most. We have both fantasised of joining the Vic-Wells Ballet from the moment we first danced together and Madame Lebedev said that we were destined for great things. Madame jokes that Rudi was born pointing his feet, but what she really means is that ballet is in his blood. She used to dance in the Bolshoi back in Russia, she even danced for the Tsar on several occasions, but then things in Russia got so treacherous that she and Rudi fled to Europe, before finally settling in London.
