His legs scissored above the other dancers, and he landed with a double spin on one knee, arms overhead, and swept back into the air with an effortless leap. I sucked in my breath. If ever I’d imagined that ballet damaged a man’s masculinity, he thoroughly disproved that notion in three beats of my heart. He was all muscle and control, skill and artistry—and such power. It oozed from him as he overtook the entire stage, the other dancers merely a background to his stunning performance.
And to think, I’d been in his presence—dancing alongside him.
I think I withered to the floor when the curtain shut, siphoning off my view of the most magical sight I’d ever witnessed, its intensity still sitting hard against my chest. Ballet was so much more real, more stirring and magnificent, than I’d ever realized. I was alight with more happiness than any devout member of St. Luke’s had any right to feel inside a theater, but I couldn’t help it. I straddled two worlds, my heart evenly divided.
I danced my way home through Covent Garden’s crowded streets and up the Strand, clutching the soggy programme I’d managed to rescue from the gutter outside Craven. When I reached our home on dirty old St. Giles, I paused in the midst of distant shouts and banging doors to look through the limp paper for the name I desperately had to know.
North Wind . . . . . . . principal dancer, Mr. Philippe Rousseau
I gasped, cold fingers over my mouth, and read it over and over. Principal dancer. I had danced with the principal dancer.
I looked up at the tiny square window with its four panes of greenish glass, the wealth of moss slicking the walls of our building in this little Covent Garden side street that clung by a thread to respectability. A single errant flower dared to grow between the stones of our building and I plucked it, spinning that rare show of color between my fingers and once again hearing the orchestra in my mind as it crescendoed and boomed across the theater. One day we’ll be dancing together on that stage. I vow it.
Impossible as it seemed, I ached with a crushing desire for that promise to be true.
When I climbed the stairs, barely remembering to skip the broken one, dear Mum’s warm smile greeted me, then Lily’s sisterly scowl.
Poor Lily was a pretty, dimpled thing two years older than I who’d been built for a life of pleasure and amusement, but fate had stolen her real mum years ago and left her stuffed with us in this little flat, a life which snuffed her dreams of men and gowns and coquetry. Now here she stood, stirring her specialty—soup dé scraps—in a pot over the fire, charging me with a single look for every minute of work she’d had to do in my absence.
I pinched back a grin as I clutched the precious shoes and programme under my cloak. I met Lily’s stare with a smile and spun her around with my free arm before bending to kiss Mama. “Happiest of birthdays, Mama. I’ll finish that cake, I promise. But first, a gift for you.”
Grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, I knelt before this gentle woman and placed the sacred shoes in her lap, ribbons spilling down over her knees. Weeks of extra work and secrecy . . . all for this.
And it was worth it. She blinked, mouth falling open and hands framing her face as tears swelled in her eyes. She dabbed them with the corner of her apron and lifted the slippers as if they’d been the crown jewels. “Oh, Ella. Child. Are they . . . ?”
“The very ones.”
“Oh, but how—why . . .”
I shrugged with a little smile. “Merely returning them to their rightful owner.”
Acknowledgments
This particular book wouldn’t have happened without the endless creative brilliance, encouragement, and feedback of Susan Tuttle, critique partner extraordinaire. I’m so blessed by her friendship, and all she’s invested in my books. She helped draw out this story chapter after frustrating chapter, when I couldn’t see the big picture through the details and went back and forth endlessly as we untangled it. I’m also particularly grateful for the wisdom and story genius of Allen Arnold, who helped me reimagine the story and see clearly the “point” of it. He has taken every story I’ve written deeper and farther, and he’s taught me a lot about being a writer. Crystal Caudill, fabulous critique partner, thank you for your insights, your opinions, and even the fangirling. You bless me always.
My dad is another of those brilliant minds I couldn’t do without. Whenever I’m stuck, a simple conversation with him generating all these wild ideas gets my creativity going again, and his help throughout the text gets me thinking and polishing. He’s the finest first reader.
My team at Revell has shaped my writing career and my books with much talent and artistry. They provide gorgeous covers that become the face of each story, clean up the plots and polish the prose, then help me send it into the world. I couldn’t do this without them behind me, and I’m forever grateful for each person who works on my stories. No girl ever had better cheerleaders.
To the producers, actors, and fans of Signed, Sealed, and Delivered—thank you! This show was wonderful food for my heart as I wrote my own “lost letter” story. I felt over and over again the passion these people had for repairing the story of complete strangers through their letters, and the importance of the written word. These shows are a gold mine of beauty, and so is the tight-knit, kindhearted group of fans who enjoy them.
Mostly, I am overwhelmed with gratitude to God for reshaping this book from what I originally thought it should be. He never fails to impress and surprise me.
Joanna Davidson Politano is the award-winning author of Lady Jayne Disappears, A Rumored Fortune, and Finding Lady Enderly. She loves tales that capture the colorful, exquisite details in ordinary lives and is eager to hear anyone’s story. She lives with her husband and their two kids in a house in the woods near Lake Michigan. You can find her at www.jdpstories.com.
JDPStories.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Praise for Finding Lady Enderly
Half Title Page
Books by Joanna Davidson Politano
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
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Discussion Questions
Sneak Peek of Joanna’s Newest Novel
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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