***
Later that year, Mother took it into her head that I could be sent to a dance school. We had settled long ago that there were no schools nearby, but she opened up the possibility that I could attend one far away and board there.
She had often told me of seeing Marie Bonfanti, the prima ballerina assoluta, dance at Niblo’s Garden in New York City. Madama Bonfanti had retired from the stage some time before. But Mother had read the news that Madama had opened a ballet school in New York, where she taught the Cecchetti method. Mother thought the youngest and most tenderhearted of her New York cousins might be willing to use a little influence on her behalf, if properly approached with flattery and eloquence. There was no question of help from my grandparents. A letter from the lawyer had made that clear some time before.
In addition to New York, letters went out to Boston and Richmond and Charleston. Even to San Francisco, and once to Chicago. Abroad, they went to Moscow, Paris, Venice, Bonn. In a fit of optimism, my mother even bought me a valise, so I’d be ready to go.
It sounded like a fantasy, but I encouraged it all the same. The school in Jeansville was tedious at its very best, and I had several years left to go if I stayed. And I worried about Ray more and more. The idea of ballet school sounded like my only reasonable chance at escape. So I practiced and practiced and held out hope.
It was 1894, and I was fourteen years old when my mother received the letter from Madama Bonfanti. She presented it to me at breakfast, her cheeks pink with excitement.
“What do you think of that?” she said with delight, flipping the cream-colored envelope down onto the wood of the table.
She had already slit the envelope across the top, so I tugged the letter out. The faint smell of lavender wafted upward as I unfolded it to read:
We will be at the Biltmore Estate on Wednesday 13 September taking our leisure with the family. If your daughter is as talented as you say, you may bring her to dance for us on that afternoon, and we shall see her.
Mother said, “To dance for Bonfanti. This could be magic, Ada. It could change everything. If she likes you, she could take you to New York. You could enter her Academy. We’re so lucky she’ll be so close by. Oh, it must be fate!”
“She lives at this Biltmore?”
“Oh no, oh no. Biltmore is the home of the Vanderbilts. A palace, nearly. I’ve read about it in the magazines. They’re still building it, but it’s already famous across the country. The biggest family house in all of America.”
“And it’s in Tennessee? Why?”
“Over the mountains, dear. In North Carolina. But it’s close by enough, less than a day’s ride. Oh, I can barely imagine. Madama will be in a relaxed mood, receptive. They’re still building the home, but Mr. Vanderbilt might be there—maybe they’ll even invite us to stay! Oh, I don’t know what you’ll wear…your practice gowns are worn to shreds…”
I heard her words but not her meaning. Estates and mountains and coach rides. Too much at once.
She grinned at me, a blinding smile. “This is your chance, Ada, your chance. You could go to her school! You could be a ballerina!”
I finally started to grasp what she was saying. “Madama Bonfanti…of the Academy…wants to see me dance.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed.
“On the thirteenth.”
“Oh. Oh!” she said, rising to pace the floor. Her bare feet made no sound. “The thirteenth! That’s tomorrow! The mail must have been delayed… We’ll have to leave in the dark. The note says afternoon, but no particular time? That’s good. But Victor’s gone with Silas to the horse fair in Montclair. They won’t be back. I’ll have to ask Raymond to drive us.”
“Don’t do that!”
“Why not? We can’t go just the two of us. Even if it were proper.”
I couldn’t explain, so I stayed silent.
She mistook my look for another kind of nervousness, and she reached out and touched my arm. She usually only did that to correct my positions. It was a magical day indeed.
“Go practice,” she said. “You needn’t worry about the details. Just make sure you’re ready. Not too much, just your usual exercises. Make sure you’re graceful. She’ll want to see you graceful.”
Nearly tripping over my own feet in my excitement, I dashed up the stairs. I was already wearing my practice garments, a loose dress over my camisole, enough to cover me down to my calves but give my legs freedom to extend fully. In my room, I donned my pointe shoes and practiced in front of the mirror until the sun went down. As I danced, my confidence grew. This would be the moment. I was strong. I was talented. I would show Madama all my skill in a handful of bravura moves, a sequence of pas de chat and pliés, pirouettes en dehors and fouettés en tournant.
In the evening darkness, I dressed in traveling clothes and squared my shoulders, telling myself I was capable of changing my future. When Mother called me outdoors, I strode downstairs and outside with my head held high.
When I saw Ray standing next to the coach, I faltered a bit on the inside but left the smile on my face. I told myself I couldn’t let him rule me, not through fear, not in any way. I told myself that someday soon, I would need to stand up to him. But this wasn’t the time for it. If this excursion went well, if I impressed Madama Bonfanti with my grace and talent, I would be gone from this place and never have to worry about him again.
“Your mother told me of your good news!” he said. “Such an opportunity.”
The forced, jolly note in his voice jangled my nerves. There was something foreboding about it, something dangerously false. I remembered how he’d touched the razor to my cheek and smiled, murmuring his threats.
Mother waved, only her white glove visible from the interior of the coach. “Isn’t it lovely?” she said. “We’re so lucky to travel in such style!” She looked happier than I’d seen her in months. This trip was as important to her as it was to me, if not more so.
Ray extended his hand to help me up into the coach. I didn’t see how I could refuse, with Mother watching. I paused for a moment to straighten my skirts first, collecting myself as I did so.
“I suppose I’m just your lowly cousin,” he said merrily, loud enough for my mother to hear. “No doubt you’ll forget all about me when you’re famous.”
Finally I took his hand and put my foot up on the step. He smelled of sweat and old hay. As he boosted me up into the carriage, he bent close to my ear, whispering softly enough that only I could hear him.
“I hope you know I’ll never let you leave,” he said.
I twisted to face him and nearly fell. He put his other hand up to catch me at the waist and kept me in place, staring up at me, with a cold and steady smile. He twined his fingers into mine, clinging in a way that was not at all brotherly, and I strained as hard as I could to free myself from that grasp. Once, twice, three times. At the end, with a look that reminded me it was his choice and not mine to make, he let go.
Released, I sat down hard in the back of the coach. Mother chattered away, speaking about me but not to me, praying everything would be all right when we arrived, since everything in the world depended on everything being all right.
I heard Ray climb up to the driver’s seat and call out to the horses, snapping the reins against their backs. The coach lurched forward.
We rolled on, heading toward a hopeful future, through the dark.