by Mary Ellis
“Miss Harrison, do you have room on your dance card to humor an old gentleman?”
She gratefully greeted her employer. “I would be honored, Dr. Bennington, as long as you promise not to withhold my pay envelope if I tread on your feet.” Candlelight sparkled in his pale blue eyes, bloodshot from long hours, little sleep, and squinting to read without his glasses. Seeing him in immaculate evening clothes, she could imagine the person Mrs. Bennington had fallen in love with. Emily was filled with daughterly compassion for the man who had taken her into his home.
“Tread all you like,” he said. A smile lifted his usual beleaguered features. “Your wages are safe.”
Dr. Bennington waltzed her around the ballroom with effortless grace and ease. He shared charming vignettes from his years as a small-town doctor, treating cranky hundred-year-old patients and once, Margaret’s pet pig.
Emily laughed with abandon. “It sounds like you miss your daughters.”
“I do, indeed. I’ve written them twice a week, every week since they left for school in Paris. I have no idea how many letters have gotten through the blockade. Maybe they haven’t seen a single word, but it still soothes my soul to write them.” His watery eyes glanced away.
Sweet memories of her own father made Emily’s heart ache for Porter Bennington. But before she could formulate a suitable reply, James Hunt swept her away.
“I believe this dance shall be mine, Miss Harrison.” Mr. Hunt pulled her into an unfamiliar, three-step that left her breathless and desperate for something to drink.
“Allow me to rescue you from my father before you faint dead away.” Alexander appeared holding out a cup of punch.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting it appreciatively.
“Let’s move out of the way.” He led her toward a potted plant. “I believe you’re well acquainted with this hibiscus.”
“Ah, my favorite hiding spot.” Sipping the cool drink, she studied him over the rim of her glass. In his formal attire, Alexander was handsomer than any man in the room. His smoky gray eyes stood in stark contrast to the golden tan of his cheeks. Clean shaven, he looked like a rogue from the dime novels Miss Turner disdained. Even a lock of hair had fallen across his brow, adding to his cavalier charm. At his side, she felt like an Ohio farm girl in borrowed clothes and affected airs—exactly what she was.
“A penny for your thoughts, Emily.” He leaned a shoulder against a post.
“I was thinking how nice you look tonight. Is that proper?” She blinked several times. “Would any of these Virginia belles make mention of that?” Emily’s voice contained a note cynicism.
“Thank you for the compliment. And I don’t give a horse hair what any of the belles would say.” He lifted her gloved hand to his lips for a kiss. “I care solely about your opinion.” His second kiss landed on her forehead. “And while we’re on the topic of appearances, yours takes my breath away. I watched you dance with Nathan and Uncle Porter and then my father, boiling with jealousy. I want you to dance with no one else for the rest of the evening.” His lips found their mark on hers, stifling her protests.
Emily pushed hard on his chest and stepped back, stunned by his boldness. “Please, Mr. Hunt, not in front of your parents and their guests.”
“What are you afraid of, Emily?” His soft words cut deep.
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know, but I don’t feel like dancing anymore.” Overwhelmed with insecurity, she ran from the room like a child. She couldn’t explain her immature behavior if her life depended on it. She’d been so eager to see him. Now she had to get away. Emily didn’t slow her pace until she was down two flights of stairs and out of the mansion. Breathless, with a heart ready to burst, she halted on a narrow path that wound through the garden. For several minutes she breathed deeply. When her eyes adjusted to the dark, she recognized the row of slave cabins where she’d met Annabelle and her son. That seemed so long ago. Picking her way between the ruts, she heard no voices lifted in conversation or song through open windows. The cabins were either dark or contained a single candle burning in a glass jar.
As Emily neared the end of the lane, the rumblings of a chant caught her attention. She hurried to the pasture fence, which enclosed an open field of beat-down grass and apple trees stripped clean of fruit. She saw in the distance the fenced horse pastures of Hunt Farms. Behind her two cats hissed among the slave cabins, displeased with her trespass. For a moment, Emily contemplated running pell-mell back to the ball until she heard the sound of laughter floating on the air. Inhaling a deep breath, she stepped over downed fence rails and picked her way between the briars.
Ahead several men played tunes on reed flutes, while others kept rhythm by slapping sticks together. Old women sat cross-legged on the perimeter of the circle beating on overturned buckets with spoons. They created a din that surprisingly added depth to the strange music. Men and women danced inside the circle, and children played tag, darting in and out between the adults. Emily’s heart began to pound, keeping pace with the music’s beat. Three lit torches, stuck in the dirt, provided illumination. The sight of the torches turned her stomach queasy, resurrecting painful memories of Ohio. I don’t belong here. But when she turned to go, two smiling little girls stopped her. One stuck out her hand, surreal in the quavering light of the fire, but Emily reached for it. The hand felt soft and sticky, like every child’s.
“Don’t be afraid, miss. Nobody’s gonna bite you,” said the little girl.
Emily laughed as she was pulled toward the circle of light. With bobbing heads and flailing arms, the dancers moved with carefree abandon. No regimented reels or dainty waltzes where a misstep meant a bruised toe. They danced not in couples and not alone—people seemed to be dancing with the entire group as bodies weaved, skirts swung, and petticoats rustled in the warm night air. Some dancers had closed their eyes, chanting and swaying as though in some sort of trance. The two little girls’ dance resembled a game of hopscotch.
Emily stepped closer to the fire, where she could watch the revelry unnoticed. Under the trees were tables laden with platters of corn on the cob, roast potatoes, various cheeses, and baskets of corn bread. A small pig rotated on a spit above a cook fire. People milled around the buffet wearing a wide variety of attire. Several young ladies were smartly dressed, perhaps the personal maids or nannies of visiting guests with their charges already asleep. Emily spotted the livery of coachmen and valets, along with the attire of horse trainers and groomsmen. Some people were barefoot in the rough, homespun garments of field hands who tended crops or the extensive vegetable gardens. Milling around wooden benches, arriving and leaving as duties dictated, the partygoers possessed an infectious camaraderie.
With music unlike any she’d ever heard, Emily’s hips began to move with a mind of their own. When a banjo added a twang to the tune, she closed her eyes and swayed, utterly hypnotized by the beat. No longer did she feel too hot, too clumsy, too backward, or too anything.
“Miss Emily Harrison, have you come to do some real dancing?” A voice cut through her mesmerized stupor.
Emily’s eyes flew open. Wearing her best dress, Lila stood before her with William. His arm was draped lightly around the young woman’s shoulders. “What are you doing here?” Emily asked.
Lila giggled. “Look around. What are you doing here?”
“I grew bored with the indoor party and thought to have me a look-see.” Emily feigned a not very convincing drawl. “I thought you two went on a picnic.”
“Done and over with. It’s time for dancing.” Lila shook her head. “Oh, excuse my manners. Do you remember William, Miss Harrison?”
“Yes, I do. How are you, William? Did Miss Amite eat you out of a full week’s wages?” she teased.
William didn’t know what to make out of her question. “I am fine, ma’am. And no, Miss Amite ate only a normal amount of food.” He peered from one woman to the other.
Lila narrowed her eyes and placed her hands on her hips. “Did you
come out here because you fell in the punch bowl?” Lila’s head swiveled from left to right, assessing Emily’s gown.
“No, I stayed far away from the punch bowl so as not to take any chances.” Emily held out her skirt for inspection.
“Did Beatrice chase you away with a broom for eating the whole buffet?” Lila arched one eyebrow.
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I ate like a delicate bird.”
After a single harrumph, Lila took Emily by the hand. “Come on then, let’s dance. You’ll not be a wallflower here too.”
Emily complied, knowing she couldn’t withstand Lila’s formidable will once the woman’s mind had been made up. And truth be told, she wanted to dance—not in the shadows but with everyone else—experiencing the fullness of life. Without hesitation Lila pulled her into the center of the circle where dancers moved in and out of the torchlight. At first Emily swayed to the tune of the flutes, letting her shoulders dip while her hips swayed slightly. As she danced, the music seemed to fill her with energy. Her head felt light as her mouth went dry. When she opened her eyes, Lila was dancing not two feet away with her knees bent low, shaking her reed-thin body. William hovered nearby with his arms crossed over his massive chest. He neither danced nor sang, but watched the two of them like a sentinel to make sure no one got too close.
If anyone found the sole white face odd or unsettling, they made no mention of it. Emily relaxed in the torchlight, stepping in a square pattern as though inventing her own waltz.
“I thought you didn’t wish to dance anymore, Miss Harrison.” Alexander’s unmistakable voice cut through the warm night air.
Emily turned toward the direction of the sound. “I changed my mind.” She tried to peer through the smoke, shielding her eyes from flying sparks.
He leaned against one of the ancient apple trees with his shirt collar open and his cravat undone. “Perhaps it was only me you didn’t want as your partner.”
Lila also stopped abruptly, as though Matilde had caught her stealing cookies. “Good evening, Mr. Hunt.” Lila hid behind the considerable bulk of William. Everyone else continued to dance but cleared an open pathway for the master’s son.
“Are you spying on me, Mr. Hunt?” Emily asked. She marched to the tree with her hands balled into fists.
“I am, but please don’t let me interrupt. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself at my festival.”
“Your festival—this is your party too?” She stared at him, perplexed.
“Of course it is. We throw one festival for our friends and neighbors and another for our workers. We want everyone to celebrate the culmination of a good year and give thanks for the harvest.”
“Even the slaves, Mr. Hunt?” She hissed the words as not to be overheard.
“Yes, the slaves and even…the governesses.” When he pushed away from the tree, firelight reflected in his dark eyes. “I followed you to make sure you were safe. And because I was curious as to what you planned to do. I loved watching you dance, by the way.” He sighed heavily. “But as usual, you view my family’s motives as something evil. I’m sure you can find your way back to the house, Miss Harrison. You found your way here easy enough.” With that, he disappeared into the shadows.
Emily was speechless. Then she bolted after him. She circled around the dancers, away from the smoky torches and curious onlookers, and down the path between the cabins. As she had anticipated, he stepped from the thicket just ahead of her on the path. “Where are you going, Alexander? I thought you came to dance.” Emily reached for his arm as she caught up to him.
“No, I’ve had enough dancing for the rest of the season. I came for you, but that was my mistake.” He shrugged off her hold and stalked toward the garden ahead.
Emily, with considerably shorter legs, had to run to keep pace with his long strides. “Please don’t hurry so. I can’t keep up.”
He pivoted on the spot. “How do you like it, Miss Harrison? I learned the rude little trick of running away from you.”
She bumped into his hard chest. Struggling not to pant like a dog, she steadied herself with both hands. “I don’t care for it now that the shoe is on the other foot.” Emily pressed a hand to her throat, willing her heart to slow down. “I apologize for my former behavior and promise…not…to…do…it…again.” The words came in fits and starts as she gasped for air. Goodness, her corset was tight.
His features softened. “Please don’t faint on me. Several ladies have already done so this evening. And I’m plum out of smelling salts.” Supporting her elbow, Alexander helped her to a bench near an overgrown patch of mountain laurel and crepe myrtle. “Sit and catch your breath. I’m certain you’ll resume despising me once your wits return.”
Emily sat down on the stone bench and fanned herself with her new fan—another gift from Mrs. Bennington. “I don’t despise you, Alexander. Right now, I reserve that emotion for myself. I’m truly sorry for the way I behaved. I felt lonely and out of place, and I took my insecurity out on you.”
He sat down beside her and slicked a hand through his hair. “Just when I thought I finally figured—”
Whatever he’d meant to add was lost. Emily wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, interrupting his dialogue. Then she kissed him fully on the mouth as a rush of heat shot through her veins. “Thank you for following me, Alexander. I secretly hoped you would.” Her words were a bare whisper against his lips, even though they were alone.
He pulled back slightly to study her. “Why do you insist on seeing my family as devils? Truly, many slave owners are, but I assure you my father is trying to deal with the land and the people he inherited the best he can. I agree that no one should be owned, but he is just a man without horns or tail.”
“I’m starting to realize life may not be as simple as I grew up believing.” She released him but snuggled up against his side, feeling warmth radiate between them. “But tonight I have no wish to debate the South’s reliance on slavery or banter society’s ridiculous rules of etiquette.” Emily ran her fingers up the muscles of his chest where his shirt clung to his skin.
“If you don’t wish to spar, what would you like to do, my little Yankee?” He pulled up a weed and tickled her nose.
Stifling a sneeze, Emily closed her eyes. “Let me think.” The smell of rain hung in the air along with the sweet scent of bougainvillea. Heat lightning streaked the sky in the distance, and a rumble of thunder foretold a coming storm. “What I should do is go up the back steps to my room. I’ve lost my hairpins and ribbons, so my hair has come down in a hopeless tangle. My coiffure is rather improper for a ball, no?” She winked as she sat up to work her fingers through her long hair.
He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “You look beautiful with your hair across your shoulders. Now tell me, what do you wish to do?”
Emily sat in the fading light of faraway stars and listened to the notes of a waltz drift through the ballroom windows.
“I would like to dance, out here in the garden, with you.” She rose with a stately bearing learned from Mrs. Bennington.
Alexander bowed low and offered his hand. “Then that is what we will do. We shall dance for the rest of the night or for the rest of our lives if you prefer. I love you, Emily Harrison.” His murmur carried on the breeze as lightning lit up the sky.
But she heard him clear and true. She knew it was an honest declaration, not spoken in a moment of passion, but coming from a hidden place deep inside him.
FOURTEEN
Nathan Smith downed the contents of his glass and refilled it again from the sideboard decanter. The bourbon failed to assuage his ill temper as it usually did. Nothing had gone right that evening.
The insipid Daniels girl deserted him after only a few kisses. After two interminable waltzes, Samantha had followed willingly when he led her away from the ballroom and up the stairs. She’d giggled as they entered a guest room at the end of the hall. But when he tried to lift her skirt, she slapped his hand away l
ike an annoying mosquito.
“Sir, I believe there has been a misunderstanding.” She pulled from his embrace and flounced out the door of the stuffy room.
His attempts to seduce two younger, more naive belles yielded the same unsatisfactory result. In one case the father of the girl, and in the other case, a brother, kept a keen eye on them to make sure their reputation remained unsullied. Even a scrawny Irish maid from Fredericksburg spurned him, raving that “her intended beau wouldn’t be likin’ his gal spoonin’ with the master” when he asked her to walk in the garden. His luck hadn’t been this bad in a long time.
The high-and-mighty master of Hunt Farms had barely talked to him all evening other than to set the time and place of their next foray. That he would do with his usual efficiency, making sure the rangers arrived knowledgeable about the plan and expectations. Alexander had been cordial but too preoccupied to share a brandy with him after concluding their business. When had he become a teetotaler? Smith knew whom Alex’s eyes searched for across the crowded ballroom. But the outspoken governess had disappeared after her obligatory dances with Porter Bennington and James Hunt. She couldn’t have gotten away from Alexander soon enough, that much was clear.
Smith tossed back his bourbon as he stared out the library window. He could see the dancing firelight of the slaves’ festival in the distance. Movement in the garden beyond the portico caught his attention. Squinting through the wavy glass, he witnessed a kiss between William, Alexander’s valet, and that maid of the Benningtons. How sweet their kiss—brief, chaste, tender. What was her name—Linda or Leah? Her name didn’t matter, but he recalled the ripe figure filling out her dress the day he ran into the Yankee. Then William tipped his hat, bowed to the maid, and disappeared down the path.
