PHANTOM IN TIME (8 page)

Bella
frowned. “You're certain you're up to attending the premiere?”

“I
wouldn't miss it for the world.” She carefully studied Bella's face. “Something
is troubling you.”

“You
know me so well.”

“Out
with it, dear. Surely you're not afraid to sing in the chorus? Or does swinging
in the cage make you dizzy?”

Bella
laughed. “Actually, what makes me the most disoriented is that chandelier
whirling about during scene changes, and all that crazy, dancing light.”

Isabella
scowled deeply. “My, yes. I don't think they should do that, dear. It's
downright dangerous.”

“But
it's a part of the original production.”

“One
shouldn't sacrifice safety for the sake of art.”

Bella
nodded. “Gran, I'm wondering . . .”

“Yes?”

“This
may sound crazy, but what if the restaging is so faithful that it
becomes
the original production?”

“Why,
what a novel idea!” Gran cried. “Tell me, are you encountering the theater's
ghosts again?”

“It's
more than that. Last night during one of the scene changes . . . well,
something really spooky happened.”

“What,
dear?”

Bella's
turbulent gaze met Gran's. “I think for just a brief instant while the
kaleidoscope was in motion, I may have stepped back in time a hundred years.”

“Why,
how fascinating!”

“
Weird
is more like it. Some of the details are only now starting to filter back to
me. I was in the same theater, but it was different—the stage curtains were red
instead of blue, and a slightly darker shade of paint was on the auditorium
walls and ceiling. I remember hearing the sounds of gaslight sputtering in the
chandeliers. The conductor in the orchestra pit was strange, as were the people
in the audience—men with handlebar mustaches, women with costumes straight out
of the Gay Nineties—”

“My
word!” cried Gran, her expression fascinated.

“I
was standing at the edge of the stage, and the conductor was obviously waiting
for me to start singing—what, I don't know. I was terrified—then I heard
Jacques LeFevre singing. I whirled, and thought I spotted him in a toreador
costume.” She shuddered. “Within a split-second, I spun away back to the
present.”

Gran
clapped her hands. “I knew it!”

“Knew
what?”

“Jacques
LeFevre is trying to sweep you away,” Gran declared, eyes bright with triumph.

Bella
laughed. “But, Gran, this is totally crazy. It makes no sense.”

“Does
it make sense that every year on your birthday, your parents reach out from
their very grave to send you red roses?”

Electrified,
Bella stared at Gran's utterly sincere face. For a moment she could almost
believe her grandmother was telling the truth, and the possibility washed a
chill over her.

“You
send the roses, Gran,” she accused, her voice quivering.

Isabella
solemnly shook her head. “No, dear, I don't.”

Bella
wasn't sure what to believe. “You're saying Jacques LeFevre is trying to sweep
me back in time a hundred years?”

“I
don't know where he's trying to take you, dear,” Isabella replied. “But I know
that rascal is determined to have you. And I'm sure stranger things have
happened.”

Bella
was silent, bemused.

Gran
leaned toward Bella, squeezing her hand. “Don't be afraid to leave me, darling.
Go where your destiny takes you.”

Bella
stared at Gran through suddenly stinging eyes. “I can't go anywhere unless I
sing for you.”

But
Gran merely patted her hand. “You'll sing for me, dear. You'll sing.”

***

Go
where your destiny takes you.

That
night at the premiere, as Bella swung in her cage while Victor Daly serenaded
her, she caught a glimpse of Gran, sitting on the front row of the packed
house, smiling up at her. How she wished she could smile back, or wave! Gran
was so dear, so selfless to consider her granddaughter's destiny above her own
welfare.

Daly's
solo ended to enthusiastic applause. Afterward, as Bella's cage was lowered and
the kaleidoscope began to revolve, she clambered out into the fountain of
light, again dizzy and disoriented. After staggering offstage, she stood in the
wings for a moment, steadying herself and watching the
corps de ballet
perform their enthralling dance of “A Waltz Dream.” A moment later, she headed
off to her dressing room to change for “Ride of the Valkyries.”

Dixie, at the dressing table, was already attired in her Valkyrie costume. “Hi, Bella, how
was your number?”

“Oh,
it was fine, though that kaleidoscope is still giving me fits,” Bella muttered,
setting down her rose, unfastening her brooch, and unbuttoning her blouse.

Dixie stood and picked up Bella's winged helmet. “Need some help with your costume?”

“Yes,
thanks,” Bella replied while pulling off her blouse. “They're doing 'A Waltz
Dream' now, and I think we'll have about ten more minutes before Daly and
Bernard conclude the love duet from
Romeo et Juliette
.”

The
two women worked quickly getting Bella changed. Minutes later, both stood
before the mirror in their gleaming winged helmets, their flowing white gowns
topped by glittering silver chain mail vests. Both wore their hair down and
loosely curled.

“We
look ridiculous,” declared Bella.

Dixie laughed. “Right.” She grabbed a spear and shoved it into Bella's hand. “Don't forget
your lance. Perhaps it will help you keep your equilibrium as we go onstage.
Wish we didn't have to enter from opposite sides, or I'd assist you.”

“I'll
be okay,” Bella said bravely.

The
two women rushed out the door and parted company in the wings. Bella arrived at
her entrance point just as Bernard and Daly concluded their powerful duet. With
applause thundering out and the kaleidoscope beginning to whirl again, she
gripped her spear and entered the stage, passing Anna Maria in her Italian
Renaissance costume—

Within
seconds, Bella halted in her tracks. The dizziness hit her again, this time
with staggering intensity. Bella felt as if she were spinning out of control,
her body revolving in powerful circles, passionately seized by dancing light.
And she could hear Jacques singing, beckoning to her in his poignant, powerful
voice:

Just a song at twilight,

When the lights are low,

And the flick'ring shadows,

Softly come and go.

Tho' the heart be weary,

Sad the day and long,

Still to us at twilight

Comes love's old song,

Comes love's old sweet song.

When
at last Bella ceased to whirl, she was stunned to find herself back on that
other
stage again, the very stage she had visited so briefly last night! She stood at
the edge beneath the proscenium arch, looking out at an audience of
uproariously laughing Victorian spectators. Hearing a man singing, she whirled
and found herself face-to-face with Jacques LeFevre, who appeared to be very
much alive, dressed in a dashing red and black toreador costume. He was staring
at her in amazement as he belted out the “Toreador Song.” Behind him loomed a
backdrop of a tavern in rural Spain; Jacques was surrounded by other singers in
period costumes—people Bella had never seen before!

Hearing
additional mirth spilling from the audience, Bella struggled not to cringe. Oh,
heavens, what had happened to her! Here she was, dressed as a Valkyrie from Valhalla, gate-crashing what appeared to be a full staging of
Carmen!

As
she stood rooted to the spot by fear, Jacques stopped singing and stared at her
in awe. The orchestra sputtered to a halt. Whirling, Bella faced hundreds of
curious eyes focused on her. For a horrifying split-second, she was certain she
was going to be sick—

Mortified,
she dashed off into the wings.

Chapter Eight

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“Young
woman, what on earth do you think you are doing?”

In
the wings, Bella had just set down her lance and collapsed onto an antique
trunk, only to find herself confronted by a small, dark-haired, dark-eyed man
wearing an outlandishly outdated black worsted jacket with a velvet shawl
collar, a gold satin vest accented by a glittering watch fob, and striped brown
trousers. Red-faced, he loomed over her in fury, shaking a small finger. He
looked rather like a windup toy about to pop its spring.

“Sir—I
don't know wh-what you mean,” stammered Bella. “I don't even know where I am.”

“Then
you're clearly a lunatic, hell-bent on ruining me!” declared the man. “How dare
you intrude on my performance like that! Do you think the proper way to get
yourself admitted to the opera is by barging onstage in the middle of our
production, dressed in that outrageous outfit? Or are you another one of those
shameless hussies willing to go to any lengths to catch the attentions of
Jacques LeFevre?”

Bella's
mind was spinning. So Jacques LeFevre
was
real! She
had
actually
seen him out on the stage! Oh, God! Then that meant . . .

“Well,
young lady?” ranted the man. “Explain yourself!”

Bella
stared up at him in helpless confusion. She became aware of the sounds of music
spilling in from the stage. She could hear Jacques LeFevre singing the
“Toreador Song” again. Oh, Lord, where was she? What had happened to her?

“That
does it!” exclaimed the man. “How dare you contemptuously ignore my questions!
Well, I'm fetching the constable this very minute to cast you out of the
theater!”

That
remark got Bella's full attention and brought her surging to her feet. “No!
Wait! Please, don't! I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on your
performance—it's just that, well, I became lost and disoriented.”

The
man stared at her, mystified. “An understatement if I've ever heard one.”

All
at once both were distracted by thunderous applause. A moment later, a tall man
strode through the curtains to join them, and Bella found herself once again
facing Jacques LeFevre!

But
this man was no ghost! Indeed, he appeared very much alive, his gaze riveted on
her with amusement and sensual awareness. His overwhelming presence all but
staggered her.

Bella
could scarcely believe he was real. Dressed in a magnificent red and black
toreador costume, he was tall and slender, magnificently proportioned, with
broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long, lean legs. His skin glowed with good
health, his features were every bit as handsomely chiseled as she remembered,
and his thick, dark brown hair gleamed softly. She caught a glimpse of his
hands—beautiful, tanned, long-fingered. She imagined those hands touching her,
and her stomach curled in shameless response. She stifled a wince, stunned that
just looking at this man could affect her so!

She
dared another glance at his face and spotted laughter dancing in his beautiful
dark eyes. Did he recognize her? She couldn't be sure.

“Well,
Etienne, who have we here?” he asked in a deep voice made all the more sexy by
a slight French accent.

The
man named Etienne waved his arms in exasperation. “I have no idea, Jacques! But
she is a nervy baggage to be invading our performance this way.”

Jacques
chuckled. “But she intrigues me mightily with her impertinence. Don't be too
hard on her, Etienne. Obviously, she has come to join our troupe, and, I must
say, a more original approach I've never seen. Why don't we keep her around and
try her out?” Slowly and thoroughly, he raked his gaze over Bella. “She's
pretty enough, don't you think?”

Bella's
senses plunged into chaos at Jacques's words, his scorching look. Her stomach
again knotted pleasurably and her heartbeat roared in her ears.

Etienne
scratched his jaw and scowled at her. “Still, she's a rude little upstart. I'm
not sure I want to keep her sort around.”

“Oh,
but I do.” Jacques assumed a proprietary air. “What is your name, girl?”

For
a moment Bella went blank, so overpowered did she feel by Jacques's masterful
masculinity. At last she found her voice. “I—I'm Bella De La Rosa.”

“Well,
welcome to the St. Charles Opera House, Bella De La Rosa,” Jacques drawled.

Then,
to Bella's utter astonishment, Jacques LeFevre leaned over and boldly kissed
her on the mouth! She reeled at the quick, warm pressure of his lips and caught
a whiff of his scent, a thrilling combination of male sweat and bay rum.

He
pulled back and grinned at her in a flash of even white teeth. “I'll be happy
to try you out, Bella,” he murmured, and swaggered off into the wings.

Bella
watched his retreat in a daze, her lips still burning from his kiss. Hearing
Etienne angrily clear his throat, she turned to him.

“Very
well, girl,” he snapped. “You may be an ungodly nuisance as well as a madwoman,
but if Jacques LeFevre wants you around . . . Come back tomorrow morning at
ten, and I'll audition you for the chorus.” He flung a hand outward. “Now I'd
advise you to leave these premises before I change my mind.”

He
stalked away, leaving Bella alone, in a terrible state of shock and turmoil.
From the stage, she could hear bawdy Spanish music swelling and castanets
snapping. From the shouts and laughter, she presumed Carmen was performing her
lusty dance to impress the male of the species—

But
she wasn't supposed to be in a theater where
Carmen
was being performed!
What had happened to her? One moment she had been amid a performance of
Kaleidoscope
—the
next, she had spun away and landed here during a full staging of
Carmen,
facing a man supposedly dead for a century who was now distinctly warming her
blood!

Had
she died? Was she dreaming? Suddenly, Bella felt a chill as she again
remembered a detail from the news article she'd read in the present:
Carmen
was the production the historical troupe had performed immediately prior to
staging
Kaleidoscope!