The Chaperone Read Online Free PDF Page A

enormous opportunity for her. You’re familiar with Denishawn?”
    This last question seemed an afterthought, a question that didn’t really need an answer. Cora almost nodded before realizing she should be honest and shake her head.
    Myra appeared confused. “You don’t know the Denishawn Dance Company?”
    Cora shook her head again.
    “Well. They’re the most innovative dance company in the nation. Didn’t you see them when they came through last November? At the Crawford?”
    Cora, irritated now, shook her head again. She recalled, vaguely, advertisements for a dancing group, but neither she nor Alan had been interested. Myra gazed back at her under slightly furrowed brows. Clearly, an opinion had been formed.
    “You missed something, then. Ted Shawn and Martha Graham were the leads, and they were sensational. There was none of the tripe we usually get out here in the hinterlands.” She gazed out the front window, frowning. “Denishawn does modern dance that is truly modern, artistic. Their choreography owes something to Isadora Duncan, but not entirely. They themselves are innovative. And they’re the best.” She paused, looking down at her own hands. “I’m really so happy for Louise.”
    Cora heard a distinct slap, and another scream that could have been attributed to an injured party of either gender. She cleared her throat, pointing at the ceiling. “Shouldn’t we… investigate?”
    Myra gazed at the ceiling. “No need,” she muttered, smoothing her skirt. “You can be sure—she’ll come to us.”
    Footsteps moved down a staircase, even quicker and lighter than June’s. “MOTHER!”
    Myra gave no answer.
    “MOTHER!”
    “We’re in here, darling,” Myra called out. “In the parlor. Being civilized.”
    A girl appeared in the doorway, her right hand pressed against her left shoulder, her dark eyes glassy with tears. Cora had no doubt she was looking at Louise: even crying, the skin around her eyes puffed with rage, she was strikingly beautiful. She was short and small like her mother, with the same pale skin and heart-shaped face, the same dark eyes and dark hair. But her jaw was firmer, and her cheeks were still as cherubic as young June’s. Framing all this was the remarkable black hair, shiny and straight and cropped just below her ears, the ends tapering forward on both sides as if forming arrows to her full lips. A smooth curtain of thick bangs stopped abruptly above her brows. Viola was right. For all her resemblance to her mother, really, this girl looked like no one else.
    “Martin hit me,” she said.
    “Hit?” Myra asked. “Or slapped? After years of living with you both, I suppose I can hear the difference, even a floor away.”
    “It left a mark!” Louise moved her hand and lifted the sleeve of her cream-colored frock to reveal a patch of skin that was not only red, but beginning to bruise along the top. Cora gasped. Louise looked at her, but only for a moment.
    “He’s bigger than I am. He’s older. And he was in my room, reading my diary! How can you tolerate that level of insolence from him?” She pointed to her arm. “And violence?”
    Myra smirked, clearly amused by the drama of the girl’s words. But to Cora, both questions seemed legitimate. The mark on the girl’s arm was ugly. If this Martin person was older than Louise, he must be close to the age of the twins, and she couldn’t imagine either Howard or Earle striking a younger girl, or any girl for that matter. They simply wouldn’t do it. And if one of them lost his head and did, he would have to answer to both Cora and Alan, who would take such an incident far more seriously than the still-smirking woman seated across from her now.
    “Your brother’s insolence and violence won’t be your problem much longer,” Myra said, stifling a yawn. “And you can keep your precious diary safe in New York, thanks to this woman here. Louise, I’d like you to meet Cora Carlisle.”
    The girl looked at Cora. She