by Kim Bowman
That's why she'd hoped she'd make a match during her time in Charleston. But with each Charleston gentleman she met, she was swiftly becoming convinced that gentlemen born of sophistication were no more entertaining than the pigs her brother had once kept.
And Willard Boyles with his talk of crops was just as dull as all the others she'd met.
Blessedly the reel ended before Mr. Boyles could bore her into a state of unconsciousness.
“Wait here and I'll get you a new glass of punch.”
The only way Carolina would wait there was if thousand pound weights suddenly attached themselves to her ankles. It wasn't that Mr. Boyles was a bad sort. He was just tedious; and if she were made to endure his company much longer, she might blurt something unkind.
She made her way back across the room to where Marjorie stood alone in the corner.
She so desperately wished some gentleman would see fit to ask Marjorie to dance; then, the others might do the same. Carolina knew better than to ask any of her dance partners to ask Marjorie to dance though. Marjorie might not enjoy coming to this particular assembly each year, but she hated pity even more; and while Carolina's motives were inspired by anything but pity, Marjorie might not see them that way.
“You didn't have to come back,” Marjorie said.
“Nonsense. I wanted to.”
“You're a good friend, Carolina.” Her whispered words made Carolina's heart squeeze.
“And so are you.” No matter what others thought of Marjorie and her unfortunate situation, Carolina would always be her friend. Mounds of wealth and the nicest things money could buy wouldn't alter that. She craned her neck to see around the man right in front of her. “I think your mother is looking for you.”
“It's probably time for us to go,” Marjorie said, setting her empty glass on the window sill. “Our crops are ready to harvest, so we have to get back to the plantation early tomorrow.”
Carolina didn't know whether the part about the crops being ready was true or not, but she had no intention of embarrassing Marjorie by questioning the truth of her statement. “Very well; I hope you have a safe journey. Would it be all right if I came to see you when I return to the country?”
Marjorie bit her lip and a pale blush stole over her cheeks. “I'd love to see you, but...”
“Then it's settled,” Carolina said with a quick clap of her hands; grinning. “I'll come by to see you after I return.”
Marjorie shook her head. “You're impossible.”
“No, I'm a friend who cares about you. Not what you do and don't have, but you.”
“Very well. Come whenever you please then. I must be going.”
A somber feeling came over Carolina as she watched her friend's retreating back. Marjorie had pride, she knew that, but sometimes pride was a very damnable thing.
“The next reel is about to start.” said the familiar voice of Myron Cale.
Carolina turned to him and forced a thin smile. “Are you asking me to partner you?”
Myron chuckled and flashed his best grin. “Always so direct; that's what I love most about you!” He held his hand out to her. “Come, let's line up.”
Reluctantly, Carolina took her spot in the middle of the floor. Though Myron Cale, with his painfully firm grasp, wooden feet, and the ability to ramble for half an hour about absolutely nothing, was one of her least favorite dance partners, this reel was one of her absolute favorites, mainly because it moved too fast to allow an abundance of talking!
An assembly of house servants sat in the back corner. One was positioned at a black piano, two held crudely fashioned banjars, and one had a tambourine, ready to keep time.
For a brief moment, Carolina's heart lifted. Those four men were actually having fun. That was quite extraordinary considering the hard labor the field hands were subjected to on her father's plantation.
Two quick strums of the banjars rang out, followed by a series of fast notes on the piano and Carolina grasped the middle of her red satin and velvet skirt with her gloved hands and dipped.
One and two and three and four. She moved her foot back, then kicked to the right, took a step left and slid to the back. In front of her, Myron mirrored her actions, a grin the size of a cotton bushel splitting his sun-beaten face.
The music sped up, and it was now time to be led around the room by the gentlemen. Enjoying the music and losing herself in the steps, she barely winced when Myron's callused hands took hold of her hand and waist. He marched her around the perimeter of the room, then through the aisle of parted couples, and then released her so they could take their respective places.
All around them, women wearing beautifully crafted ballgowns and men dressed in the tattered blue and red uniforms that had become the Colonial Militia official uniform in 1779 danced. But no one said a thing about the difference in dress, as only a fool would believe those beautiful gowns would have been possible without the sacrifice of those dressed in the filthy and torn blue jackets with the red lining that covered the stiff, tan field shirts General George Washington declared would be fitting for proper military uniforms for the Continental Army.
This event had become a tradition when one July night eleven years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Jeffery Brown had decided to host a ball to raise money for the militia group which had formed in South Carolina and subsequently joined the Colonial Militia to fight against the Redcoats for the Colonies' independence. Each July that followed, Mr. and Mrs. Brown opened their home — either their townhouse or their plantation home when the English had occupied Charleston — again to raise money and garner more support for the war effort.
It had been five years since the war ended, and yet each year, the tradition continued. But instead of raising money or recruiting men to fight, the event was now held to celebrate the returned and fallen heroes of South Carolina. Thus, the men who'd fought wore whatever articles of clothing they'd worn home from the war, and the ladies dressed in their finest to “welcome” them.
Of course, not all the gentlemen in attendance had fought, and neither had all the ladies been old enough to welcome their sweethearts back. But that mattered very little. It was a tradition — one that, as far as Carolina was concerned, would never fade. It was because of this unfailing tradition and Mr. Reynolds' prominent role in the war that Marjorie and her family had even bothered to venture away from their plantation and face the whispers.
The piano player quieted and the banjars got louder as the men once again partnered their ladies and danced them the other direction around the perimeter of the room. Carolina loved this part of the reel and hummed right along with the music.
“Yer lookin' mighty pretty tonight, Lina,” Myron said breathlessly. He released her waist in order to do the next move which was to lean back and allow her to spin, then he pulled her tightly to him again. “I want to talk to you about something really important.”
Carolina's feet moved to the steps in time, which was a miracle considering the chills skating down her spine at those words, and she continued to hum to cover up her sudden discomfort that had little to do with being held so tightly. The last time Myron — or anyone for that matter — had voiced those exact words, they were soon followed by an offer of marriage. “Not now, Myron,” she said between hums and then resumed as he led her down the aisle created by the other couples.
“We'll talk later,” he said, relinquishing her hand.
Their spot was in the middle of the two lines, and at least eight other couples had to pass between them to form the lines before they'd have to clutch hands and finish the reel. It wasn't much time, but it would be long enough to form a plan of escape for when the dance ended.
Holding her red skirt between her fingers and mindlessly doing the steps, Carolina searched the ballroom for a gentleman who'd be able to save her from having to deflect another proposal.
Ernie Michaels and Barry Truitt stood by the door. She scowled. Neither of them would work. Ernie hedged on the side of simpleminded. Myron
wouldn't believe Carolina had an interest in speaking to him, and Barry was set to marry Myron's sister Lucy in a month. A couple passed in front of her, and Carolina shifted her gaze to the far wall where a cluster of seven eligible bachelors stood together drinking punch.
Drunkard.
Old enough to be her father.
Seemed to still think the country was at war due to his never-ending talk of Valley Forge.
Handsome, but she'd once seen him go off into the bushes with Martha Palmer. Three weeks later, Martha decided to go stay a while on her cousin's plantation...
Dullard.
Charming, but smelled horribly of tobacco from his habit of continuously overindulging in the product while in public, which he felt was appropriate due to his ancestors having been tobacco farmers from Virginia.
Had attempted two proposals—both of which she'd dodged in the same manner she was attempting now.
She sighed and turned her attention to the back corner of the room. There were only two more couples to come through the line, so she'd better make a decision and quick.
Shorter than her — which was astonishing since she was only five foot two — balding, and had the strangest fascination with discussing everything he ate along with the aftertaste it left in his mouth following the meal.
Handsome, but was extremely condescending and cruel toward those he felt were inferior.
Ah, Donald O'Leary. He had unusual speaking patterns and, like most gentlemen she'd met, talked overmuch about the plantation he one day longed to own; but compared to her other choices, he'd do just fine.
The last couple passed in front of them, and with no warning whatsoever, Myron's strong hands found her again and started leading her in the final steps. He pulled her closer than was proper, crushing her breasts against his chest.
A slow sense of unease washed over Carolina. She hated it when her partners did this. Did they think she didn't know they did it on purpose?
Yes, awkward Donald O'Leary would certainly suffice as her next dancing companion if it meant getting away from Myron and his unwanted attentions.
“Lina, would you care to join me on the balcony?” Myron asked as soon as the music stopped.
Carolina flashed him her best attempt at a smile, considering that he was still holding her in a way that pressed her breasts against his equally soft chest and had her looking straight up into his red-tipped nose when she tried to meet his eyes. “How about another time? I need to ask Mr. O'Leary a question, and I'd like to speak to him before all the other young ladies flock over to him.”
Myron snorted. “Surely, whatever it is you have to say to the Irishman can wait. This will only take a moment.”
Maybe a moment to him, but to her it would seem like a lifetime as he praised her brown hair and matching eyes, then went on to say how lovely her daughters would be with her delicate features and perfect smile. Then, he'd take her hands into his and squeeze them until she’d think her fingers might break while he’d compliment her flawless manners and would blush and tell her that she was far more intelligent than he, which would be a point in the favor of any child she bore. And then, just as the uncomfortable pressure surrounding her was about to choke the air from her lungs, he'd ask if she thought... that is... if she could accept a lumbering oaf like him as a husband. Then those beautiful, intelligent children could be theirs together.
At least that's what would happen if history repeated itself. After having two proposals by three other men, she was quite convinced history did, in fact, repeat itself; but only if allowed. And Carolina, for all the charm and manners a young lady of her station was thought to have, did not want a repeat of that particular history lesson.
“No, Myron, I really need to ask him something now. It's important.”
He raised a brow.
“It's about my brother,” she continued, inwardly congratulating herself for her quick thinking. “I wanted to ask if Mr. O'Leary has seen any letters from him.” Though she doubted he had. Her brother had left to join the war seven years ago and that was the last time her family had seen or heard of him.
“Wouldn't he have delivered them to your house?” Myron hedged.
Carolina shook her head wildly. “Oh no, not at all. The post is still being delivered out to the plantation where my father is staying.”
He nodded once then sighed. “Oh, all right.” He released her and wagged his finger in her face. “Just don't you be forgettin' I have somethin' I want to talk to you about.”
“I won't,” she murmured, walking as quickly as she could to get away from him without it looking obvious.
He really wasn't a bad sort; he just wasn't her sort.
“Mr. O'Leary,” Carolina greeted with her best smile as she approached Donald O'Leary.
He stood with his arms crossed and his shoulders leaning against the wall. Upon her arrival, his green eyes lit and a small smile tugged at his lips. “Aye?”
“I was wondering if you'd seen any letters from my brother come through the post.”
“Nay. Me's not seen nothin' of the sort, Miss Lina.”
Carolina bit her lip and nodded.
He reached out and clucked her on the chin with his thick callused fingers. “Ye donna be worrin' now, ye hear. He'll be back soon 'nuff, I spect.”
“Thank you, Mr. O'Leary.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw Myron's keen eyes on her. Carolina turned back to Mr. O'Leary and cut her eyes at him.
Nothing.
She batted her lashes at him, praying he'd understand her silent plea and ask her to dance the next reel with him to save her from a trip to the balcony with Myron.
Nothing.
The idle strums of the banjars started, indicating the beginning of the next dance. If Mr. O'Leary didn't do something fast, she'd have to resort to bold tactics and lead him onto the dance floor herself.
Just then, the soft ring of a plucked banjar string grew silent, as did the rest of the room.
“Are you British?” Hubert Brown, the son of the host and hostess of the ball, demanded loudly in a voice that dripped with disdain.
All eyes in the room flew to the stranger who'd just walked in. He was tall and blond with a small patch of reddish-brown whiskers. His clothes were just as unkempt as his hair with various shades and sizes of stains covering the torn garments he wore.
Though several of the men present wore shabby garments that rivaled this fellow's, not a one of them had the same confident air about him that, in the span of a second, had captivated Carolina's full attention.
“'Fraid so,” the stranger said in the thickest English accent Carolina had ever heard.
Around the room, low grumbles, muttered curses, and even spitting could be heard.
“And just what do you think you're doing at a ball held in celebration for the men who served our country to defeat yours?” Hubert asked with a snarl.
The uninvited stranger, who actually looked rather dashing in a rugged and mysterious sort of way, tipped his left shoulder up in a casual shrug. “I thought I'd come tonight to represent what the Redcoats looked like after getting our arses whipped by you Yankees.”
Chapter Three
The tension drained from John's body as the hostile crowd around him evaporated into loud, unbridled laughter at his half-hearted jest.
Thank goodness.
Had the arrogant man to his left not mentioned something about a celebration to the Colonial Militia, he wouldn't have had a clue what he'd have said to divert the attention from himself. After more than a year in the northeast, he'd learned hostilities toward the English were still common. He'd also heard southerners were far more outspoken about such, which didn't speak much for John's common sense when he agreed to travel with his friend Gabriel to South Carolina to experience a different type of American culture.
The arrogant man with the oversized nose standing next to him slapped him on the back. “Very good, then. Enjoy your night.”
John nodded. “Thank you,
sir.”
In a moment or two, the crowd went back to talking and the musicians played the beginning notes of another reel. Heedless to the odd looks he was receiving, John made his way to the corner to search for his friend Gabriel, who had said he'd be here tonight.
Around him, the music grew louder and the gentlemen, who were dressed little better than he, twirled the beautifully dressed ladies around the floor. Odd. Not odd that they were dancing, that was normal enough, he supposed. But, of the few local assemblies he'd attended in England before coming here—and even the handful of balls he'd been to in Boston and Philadelphia—no gentlemen would dress in such a way. He shook his head. His brother Edward with his unbridled love for biological science would love to visit, because there was no doubt about it, this was a whole different breed of humans who inhabited these parts.
“Ooh, excuse me,” murmured a petite young lady wearing a crimson gown.
John stepped back to let her pass. “Pardon me, miss.”
She didn't move, just stood right there no more than half a step away. She looked at him with the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen. But for the life of him, he couldn't understand why she just stood there staring.
“Am I keeping you from something?” he inquired, taking another step back so she could get through without touching his dirty breeches with the skirt of her pretty gown.
“Someone,” she said with a slight smile, her eyes shone with all sorts of mischief — the very thing he wanted no part of. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and gave her head a slight shake to the left.
John's eyes traveled in the direction she'd indicated. A decent looking gentleman with a blue shirt and buff trousers stood against the wall with his arms crossed and what appeared to be a scowl on his face. “Are you telling me you'd prefer a Redcoat's company to his?” he asked, lifting his brows.
