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In Praise of Younger Men
A /Man Who Can Dance/
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A Scottish Tale*
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/Cathy Maxwell//
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/For June Stephenson, Book Guru//
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/Copyright notice
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Contents
1 <#chapter_1> 2 <#chapter_2> 3 <#chapter_3> 4 <#chapter_4> 5
<#chapter_5> 6 <#chapter_6> 7 <#chapter_7> 8 <#chapter_8> 9
<#chapter_9>
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Chapter One
On a fine day in May when the sun was shining and spring had at last
arrived, Graham McNab received the news he'd worked hard to earn:
Edinburgh's finest doctor, Mr. Fielder, was releasing him from his studies.
"There's nothing more I can teach you, lad. You've a gift, a power to
heal. Go and use it." Mr. Fielder gave Graham a letter of recommendation
written in his own hand and a gift of a set of razor-sharp surgical knives.
Graham had dreamed of this day since he was a child. He'd always been a
healer. The other children in the small village where he'd grown up had
brought their pets to him. Dogs, rabbits, horses, cattle, birds, and a
chipmunk?all had been his patients.
But it wasn't until his parents had died of the dreaded smallpox and
there'd been nothing he could do to save them had he decided he must go
to Edinburgh to learn the art of medicine. He'd been fourteen at the
time and had walked to the city from his home, the village of
Kirriemuir, begging room and board from his uncle, Sir Edward Brock, in
exchange for work in his shipping business.
Graham's goal had not been an easy one for a poor highland boy.
Edinburgh University had turned up its academic nose at a student who
had none of Latin and Greek. And Uncle Edward had been a harsh
taskmaster, never missing an opportunity to discourage Graham's dreams
of being a doctor.
Mr. Fielder's patronage had been a godsend. Graham had toiled nights
over shipping ledgers and overseeing his uncle's accounts and his days
apprenticed to the wise physician. He'd tutored himself in the language
of medicine, sometimes going days without sleep.
Now, nothing could stop him. He'd reached the stars. His destiny lay
before him.
Shifting his leather bag over to his other shoulder, Graham smiled at
the added weight of the new surgical knives. He could not wait to share
his news with Sarah, the governess to his uncle's twin daughters, and
Graham's closest friend in the household. She would be as delighted as
he was.
The house came into view. The yellow brick offices and living quarters
of Sir Edward Brock were a well known Edinburgh landmark. On the other
side of the road were the warehouses and beyond them, the ships that
transported goods between Scotland and the world.
The road was teeming with activity on such a lovely day. The quayside
walk was a popular one among locals. While they strolled and visited,
merchants plied their wares and his uncle's ostlers loaded bags of grain
onto a wagon or rolled kegs into the warehouse. Brock Shipping appeared,
and was, a prosperous concern.
Graham paused and took pride in his role building the company's success
. . . but the time had come to leave the world of commerce. He stood on
the threshold of great things.
And then, from the down the road, he noticed a snow-white horse prancing
toward him. The animal was so magnificent, people stepped to the side
and watched it pass.
Or so Graham thought until he saw men take off their hats and bow and
women frown. 'Twas then he noticed the rider?and could not take his eyes
off of her.
She was the most beautiful woman Graham had ever seen.
The green velvet of her riding habit faithfully followed ripe, buxom
curves. Her cheeks were rosy and her Dresden blue eyes bright with
laughter. Silver blond ringlets, the color of the sun's rays, peeked out
from beneath a dashing cavalier's hat with a jaunty plume.
So intent had he been on his work and studies, he'd not had time to
consider the opposite sex?until this moment. He was smitten.
But he was not her only admirer. A literal cavalry of gentlemen rode
with her. Some were wigged soldiers in scarlet uniforms with mountains
of gold braid dripping from their chests. Others wore jackets cut of the
finest stuff and hand sewn to fit their wearers' shoulders. Their boots
shone from champagne blacking and jewels flashed in the lace falls of
their cravats.
She laughingly commented on something one of the gentlemen had said . .
. and as she did, she looked straight at Graham.
Their gazes met.
His heart beat double-time. His ears rang with the sound of a thousand
bells. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The busy street, the
ostlers' calls, the sun, the stars, the very heavens faded from his mind
and there was only her. Beautiful her.
Her lips parted slightly and he knew she felt the same pull of
attraction, the same aura of wonderment. She even turned in her saddle
so she could maintain eye contact as she rode past until one of her many
suitors placed himself between her and Graham.
He took a step, unwilling to let her go?
His feet tripped over something in his path. He stumbled. Reaching out,
he caught himself before he hit the ground, but it was too late. She was
gone from view.
"What were you ogling, you clumsy bumpkin?" a bored, snide voice questioned.
Graham turned to come face-to-face with his cousin, Blair.
The two of them were of the same age, six and twenty, and had similar
russet-colored hair, but there, all similarities ended. Graham was tall
and strong, his body strengthened by years of physical labor in his
uncle's warehouse, his hair unfashionably long, albeit tied back in a
neat queue.
Blair didn't even have his father's height and disdained work in any
form. He considered himself a gentleman and a gentleman never lifted a
finger in labor. Instead, he paraded around Edinburgh dressed in the
latest trends from garish striped vests to collar points starched so
high, he had trouble moving his head. He wore his hair short /a la
Brutus. /Drinking, gambling, and wenching comprised his chief pursuits.
Ah, yes, and dueling. Blair was a renowned swordsman. He was one of a
party of elegantly attired, idle young men who could terrorize a
neighborhood if they'd a mind to.
While Graham studied to save life, Blair was willing to dispatch it over
a whim or
imagined insult.
The cousins did not like each other.
Blair twirled the walking stick he'd used to trip Graham and smiled.
"You should watch where you are going."
"You should keep your walking stick out of my path," Graham answered. He
turned, praying for one more glimpse of the woman of his dreams.
"Look at him drooling over the Garrison Commander's daughter," Blair
said to Cullen, his almost constant companion and another one of the
Bully Boys, the name Blair's companions labeled themselves.
"Have you looked in your glass lately, McNab?" Blair said. "Women like
Lucinda Whitlow aren't attracted to giants?"
/Lucinda Whitlow. /Her name! Graham rolled the syllables over in his
mind, loving the sound of them.
"?And she is going to marry me," Blair concluded.
Now he had Graham's complete, undivided attention. "She's marrying you?"
The idea was preposterous. His cousin was a faithless rogue when it came
to women. "You're joking."
"No, I'm not," Blair answered with his usual air of superiority. He
pulled from his coat an invitation engraved on heavy vellum.
In bold letters at the top was printed: a man who can dance can do all
things well. Graham knew the saying. 'Twas a Scottish wives' tale of a
lass who found true marital happiness in the arms of a dancing man.
Curious, Graham easily snagged the card out of Blair's hand before his
cousin could blink. Below the heading was a request for the gentlemen of
Sir Edward Brock's family to be the Garrison Commander's guests at a
ball to be held four days hence. The ball was being given in the honor
of Miss Lucinda Whitlow for the express purpose of introducing her to
all eligible bachelors in Edinburgh.
Blair leaned close. "The Garrison Commander wishes to see his daughter
married. The rumor is he is anxious to seek his fortune in India, but he
doesn't wish to subject his very lovely daughter to the fevers and
dangers of the tropics. He wants her married posthaste and the man she
chooses at the ball will receive a most excellent dowry for his pains."
He pulled the invitation out of Graham's hands. "I will be that man. No
one in Edinburgh is a finer dancer."
Graham stared into his cousin's smirking face. 'Twas true. Blair was a
dancer. Still . . .
"It isn't addressed to you alone," Graham said. /"All /the eligible
gentleman in Uncle Edward's house are invited."
"And you believe that includes you?" Blair hooted his opinion, a sound
Cullen echoed, and pointed out, "By /gentlemen, /the Garrison Commander
isn't referring to quacks and sawbones." He whacked the side of Graham's
instrument bag with the walking stick. "Are your drills and saws in
there, coz? Have you cut open any bodies yet this morning and played
with the innards?"
In the past, Graham had always ignored Blair's barbs. But not today.
Today, something inside Graham snapped. After years of being the butt of
jokes, he wanted to put Blair firmly in his place.
Nor did his sense of chivalry want to see Miss Whitlow go to such a
mean-spirited, lazy man as Blair. She deserved better.
Graham looked his cousin in the eye. "I'm going to the ball." He turned
to walk toward the house but Blair quickly moved into his path, his
narrow eyes glittering.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, coz."
"I won't," Graham replied tightly.
Blair snorted his opinion. "You'll embarrass the family. You've never
been to a ball. What would you wear? The homespun you have on now?" He
laughed. "I daresay you can't even dance."
"I'll learn." Graham stepped around Blair and continued his way to the
house.
"You'll make a fool of yourself," Blair promised. The blunt words
reverberated on the suddenly silent street.
Graham stopped and turned. Their argument had an audience. The ostlers,
all of them men he knew and who respected him, were watching as were the
neighbors, their eyes round at the unexpected boon of juicy gossip.
Even Uncle Edward was there. He'd come out of the warehouse, his brown
periwig slightly askew on his head.
Pride exerted itself. For years he'd lived as his uncle's hireling, but
he was a man now, a man with a profession. Graham straightened to his
full height. "Miss Whitlow will be my bride."
Blair grinned and placed his hands on his hips. "Would you care to make
a wager of it?" he asked softly.
"A wager?"
Blair swaggered forward. "I'll bet ten gold coins I will win the hand of
Miss Whitlow."
"You?" Graham put all the contempt he felt for his cousin in that one word.
"Yes, myself." He opened his arms, a magician revealing he had no
tricks. "What of you, coz? Are you /gentleman /enough to accept the
wager? Or do you doubt your abilities with the ladies?"
At any other time, Graham could have walked off from such nonsense?but
not today. Aware of their audience, he asked, "What do you expect of me
in return? You know I have no gold."
"I will stake you," Uncle Edward said. All eyes turned to him, many
people surprised a father would hazard against his only son. After all,
everyone knew Sir Edward doted on Blair.
Too late, Graham had a sense of foreboding. "And your terms, sir?"
Uncle Edward smiled benevolently. " 'Tis for the good of my own soul,"
he said.
"But if I don't win . . . ?" Graham prodded.
"Ah, well." Uncle Edward considered the matter a few moments and then
offered, "If you don't win, you can work the wager off in my business as
you have been."
Graham reeled from the thought. 'Twould take him years to pay off such a
debt. And yet... he remembered the moment of connection between himself
and Miss Whitlow. The air had vibrated with its power. She had been as
attracted to him as he had to her. He knew it all the way to his soul.
He looked to his uncle. "I shall need the clothes of a gentleman."
"My personal tailor shall attend you," Uncle Edward replied. "If you win
the wager, the new coat will be my wedding gift to you."
If he lost, Graham had no doubt the price would be added to his debt.
An instant's hesitation, then, "I'll accept the wager." He heard himself
say those words almost as if in a dream. Fate played a hand in this
moment. Not even the weight of his doctor's bag and instruments could
deter him.
The ostlers gave a cheer. The neighbors challenged them to friendly
wagers and the whole street returned to life.
"What if neither of them win the girl's hand?" Old Nate, one of the
ostlers called out. Everyone listened up.
Uncle Edward answered, "She'd be a foolish lass to ignore two such
handsome men . . . but if she does, the wager will be a draw."
Everyone agreed his was a good solution. They went back to their betting.
Blair smiled. "I hope you can dance, coz."
"I'll know how to dance well enough," Graham promised.
"You'd best," Blair answered and strutted back to join his cronies.
Graham glanced at Uncle Edward who was laughing at something one of the
neighbors said. He seemed very pleased with hi
mself?and Graham wondered
what he had done out of pride.
And love. He had no doubt he was in love. A man couldn't feel such an
irresistible attraction and not be in love, could ie?
Graham reminded himself the time had come for him to marry. With a
lovely bride at his side like Miss Whitlow, his medical practice would
flourish.
Everything was right except one small item?he didn't know how to dance.
Without another word, he set off toward the house in search of his
friend Sarah. She would help him. He knew she would.
Blair came to his father's side. "Was everything as you wished?"
"You did better than expected, my son." He smiled grimly. "It will take
years for Graham to work off ten pieces of gold. Just make sure you win
the wager. I don't care how you do it. Brock Shipping can't survive
without Graham." His words were true. Sir Edward had no head for
business. Before Graham, he'd been about to go bankrupt. Graham had made
him rich.
A Man Who Can Dance Page 1
