“Sophie enjoyed the time she spent in Leicester very much. She said you went out of your way to include her.” David had told his sister nothing of his connection to Marta all these years, and yet Marta had no such qualms. As soon as Sophie had returned from her holiday she’d pestered David about their dances, their promise, and why he had said nothing. By the time he’d explained himself, however, he feared she understood more than he’d shared. His younger sister had a particular expression he was well-versed in—a holding of her features that seemed to say, I understand what you are not telling me and will do us both the kindness of not pressing.
Marta and Sophie had shared a written correspondence since the summer, and Sophie would sometimes share details of Marta’s life, to which David would feign only passing interest, as was appropriate.
“It was wonderful to meet her,” Marta said, smiling widely. “She shares your steady nature, and I enjoyed her companionship very much. Her children were delightful. I even met little David, your namesake.”
The odd envy in David’s chest took him off guard, and he realized he was jealous of both Marta and Sophie for having such an easy time with one another.
“He is rather dashing, isn’t he?” David raised his eyebrows for emphasis. Marta tipped her head back slightly and laughed.
She met his eye again. “Now, tell me about the young woman you are courting.”
“Courting might be too pointed a term, if I am honest, which I always am with you.” He gave her a nod, and she smiled her acknowledgement of their pact. “I have taken her on a few drives and walked her home from church. Grandfather thinks highly of her family.” He shrugged, wishing he’d kept the part about his grandfather’s approval to himself. He felt like a child to admit how much power Grandfather had in his life, but David was heir now, and Grandfather’s approval did mean a great deal. Marta did not seem to make a judgement, which he appreciated.
“Tell me about her.”
David hesitated. “You want to hear about the woman I am somewhat courting?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her smile faltered a little bit, but she did not look away. “I want you to be happy, David.”
Even if it is not with you, he said to himself while holding her eyes a few seconds more. He forced his gaze past her shoulder and focused on the spoken topic at hand.
“She is very accomplished,” he began, then explained Miss Petershod’s talents and disposition. Marta listened attentively, but he sensed her discomfort by the time he concluded his description of the woman, which was perhaps a bit exaggerated. He was unsure how to interpret Marta’s tension but felt satisfaction that it might be jealousy. It was shameful to want a married woman to feel jealous of the woman he was courting, and yet it was how he felt. Admitting as much to himself was honest, which was terribly ironic since in some ways Marta was the person he was most honest with, and in other ways she was the easiest to lie to.
“When will you be making Miss Petershod an offer?” Marta asked.
An offer? “It is not so serious as that,” David said with a nervous chuckle. “We have only known one another a few months.”
“I am the last to encourage a hasty decision,” she said, her smile turning sad for only a moment. “But I do wish you a happy marriage, David. If not with Miss Petershod, with another young woman. You are, what, more than thirty years old now?” She made her eyes wide and then laughed.
“Yes, it is time.” He did not want to discuss this any longer, which left the conversation wide open for a change of focus. “And your marriage? Is it improved?” His boldness surprised him, but he did not regret it.
“It is . . . enough,” she said, that sad smile again. “Betsy has given us some common ground, and I am coming to realize that my expectations were a bit more fantastic than realistic. We have managed to find an . . . accord.”
But not love?
“He did not attend the house party with you?”
“He does not like to socialize in the same ways that I do, but he has spent more time at home this last year. He is in Scotland hunting for most of the month just now. He’ll return in January.”
How could he be enamored with his daughter from Scotland?
“David?”
He had not realized he’d looked away, and when he met her eye she smiled again. “You will make the most excellent father.”
David raised his eyebrows. “Father? I am not even committed to making an offer of marriage.”
“No, but marriage is the gateway to parenthood, and you should not miss out on that.”
He laughed slightly. “You do not think that I am too old?”
She laughed again. “What an impertinent child I was,” she said, shaking her head. “Then again, I am only two and twenty and feel very, very old myself.”
“You are in the prime of your life.” David executed a fast turn she was not expecting. It was the only way he could appropriately take her breath away, and he thrilled with the power he felt in the moment that she inhaled sharply.
When they righted, she was smiling. “You are incredibly kind, David. I hope that you know how much I appreciate your friendship.”
He nodded his acceptance of her comment, not daring to speak. She squeezed his hand at the same moment that he noted the change in the music. The dance was almost over. It had been as enjoyable as it was painful. He searched for something more to say so that not a moment of their time together would be wasted, then realized that perhaps the shared silence was just the thing. He led their steps with confidence, and she followed with grace. Forward, back, right, left, over and over. One step after the other. Equal parts joy in the moment and sorrow that a moment was all it was. When the dance was finished, they would part company and blend into the crowd, perhaps catching one another’s eye at some future point tonight but not seeking the other’s company. Tomorrow he would leave for Salisbury and his grandfather and Miss Petershod. Marta would stay for the two-week house party that would follow, with her daughter at her side and her husband . . . wherever it was he chose to be instead of with her. David could not imagine what the man was thinking, squandering a gift like Marta. On a very selfish level, however, at least it meant that David had had this dance one more time. There was no telling how long their Christmas waltz tradition would last, and he was determined to make the most of every single one left between them.
Seventh
Marta
Marta turned this way and that in the full-length mirror. Her pregnancy was not as obvious as it had been the last time she’d been expecting at the Yuletide Ball, two years ago, but neither did this dress hide the bulge as much as she’d have liked—she’d increased in size much faster this time. The high-waist style of the navy satin dress helped to hide her condition, but everything about her body looked slightly puffed. She frowned at her reflection. Anyone who cared to give her a double look would suspect that she either had another child on the way or had spent the year eating sweets by the handful. She had been eating a great many sweets, but . . .
There was a knock at the door of her room, and before she could call out an invitation to enter, the door pushed open, revealing Mother dressed in a green-and-gold gown with elaborate beading across the bodice and a matching turban. Marta’s lady’s maid asked if Marta needed anything else. Marta said she did not and thanked Jane for her help in preparing for the ball.
“You look stunning, Mother,” Marta said after Jane had closed the door behind her. “Is Papa not yet ready?”
Marta picked up her gloves from her dressing table as she spoke, still assessing herself in the mirror from a variety of angles. Was she fooling herself to think the pregnancy might not be noticed? She’d danced with David when she was pregnant with Betsy and heard the whispers about the impropriety of her actions, enough that she’d rather not repeat the on-dit. Especially for David’s sake.
“Your father has already gone down,” Mother said, fingering the fringe on the curtains draw
n back from the large window.
“I am nearly ready. I shall meet you in the ballroom.”
Her mother nodded but did not leave, causing Marta to brace herself for whatever reason had brought her mother in the first place. While waiting for Mother to get to the point, Marta wriggled the fingers of her left hand into the silver satin glove, trying not to show the tension she often felt in her mother’s company these days. Some months ago, after a row with Greggory that precipitated him leaving for two months and not responding to her letters, she had confided in her mother the state of her marriage. She had hoped for some advice or encouragement, but her mother had given neither. Instead, Mother had reminded her how lucky she was to have financial security and good health—so many women did not. Marta had regretted her confession ever since, because it had led to Mother inserting her opinions into Marta’s life more than she had before. “You should host more entertainments that include Greggory’s friends,” she had said when she last came to visit. “You should invite Greggory to join you for children’s hour.” When Marta had explained she’d done these things a hundred times, Mother had not seemed to believe her and had advised her to include more of Greggory’s favorite dishes in the weekly menus and look for reasons to compliment him.
Papa had always doted on Mother, and she could therefore take for granted that the ease and affection they shared was something all marriages were capable of achieving. Mother could not advise Greggory on improvements, but she saw it well within her purview to advise her daughter. And advise she did, over and over and over. Every word of counsel was based on the assumption that the difficulties in her marriage were within Marta’s power to correct. How Marta wished that she could change something about herself so that she could draw her husband to her and their growing family. How many nights had she spent trying to determine what it was about her that kept him at such a distance?
“You look lovely as well,” Mother said, her eyes lingering on the place where Marta’s belly pressed gently against the fabric of the gown. “You will not be dancing tonight, of course.”
“Of course,” Marta said, pulling the glove up and over her elbow, then flexing and fisting her hand to adjust the fit. She reached for the other glove.
“Including the waltz?”
Marta paused for only a moment, then continued to pull the fabric over each finger. “Waltzing is much the same exertion of a walk, and walking is known to be beneficial for expectant mothers.”
“Mr. Woodbury is not your husband, and the waltz is far too intimate a dance for a married woman in your situation.”
“Plenty of pregnant women waltz with partners other than their husbands.” This was not exactly true, but it was possible. She’d seen it happen at least . . . once. Hadn’t she?
“Not when their husbands are not part of the company.”
Marta pulled the glove over her elbow and turned to face her mother fully. “If I curtailed my social interactions because my husband was not in attendance, I would never dance again. You know that, Mother.” If only you cared, she thought to herself as she turned to the mirror again, then realized she did not want her mother to see her preening. She straightened her brushes on the vanity table to busy her hands instead.
“What I know is that you are married and with child, and it is inappropriate for you to dance with a man you feel . . . warmly toward.”
Marta felt her cheeks pink in embarrassment at having her feelings for David so boldly stated. The reaction made attempting to defend herself a pointless exercise. Instead she took a breath and tried to formulate an answer that was both honest and fair. “I will not break my vows, Mother,” she said in a soft voice. “You must know me well enough to know that. But neither will I deny myself a perfectly chaste and wholly enjoyable dance with a man I respect and who also respects me and my situation, as you call it.”
Instead of backing down as Marta had hoped she would, her mother lifted her chin. “I am not the only one who has noticed these waltzes every year, Marta. I have smiled through the concerns shared with me in the past because of my faith in your good character. However, it is unwise for you to maintain a tendre for any man other than your husband. It makes you vulnerable.”
Marta pulled back her chin and put her gloved hands on her hips. “Vulnerable?”
“Men are not so careful with their impulses as women are, Marta, and I would—”
Marta let out a barking laugh of incredulity. “You think David will proposition me?”
Mother’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. “David?”
Oops. Marta ignored the slip of having used his Christian name. “He has been a good friend to me, Mother, that is all. We have never had any contact with one another aside from this one dance once a year at Christmastime, and he would never make an inappropriate advance. In fact, he has given me sound advice on managing my way through this miserable marriage. Better than anyone else I have confided in, including you.”
Mother’s shock became even more pronounced, and Marta hurried to clarify her comment before Mother found her voice. “He told me to find joy in my child and a place in the world Greggory has built for me, which is an incredibly lonely world. He also told me to keep faith that our marriage will improve, and he believes I will not always feel that accepting Greggory’s suit was the worst decision I have ever made.” She realized she was speaking too loudly at the same moment she realized that tears were rising in her eyes.
Marta took a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself and swallow back the emotion—she did not need to invite more puffiness by having a cry just now. She’d become very good at keeping those tears to the dark hours when no one but the moon could see her. “Everyone else I have gone to for help, including you, Mother, has patted me on the head and said that it is not so bad as it seems, but it is as bad as it seems. When I told Greggory of this pregnancy he pronounced that it had better be a boy, and he has not touched me since, though I certainly do not long for that. I am in a loveless marriage with a man I do not even know. And I have no way out.” The tears were rising again. Enough of this!
She took another breath and leveled her gaze on her mother’s wide eyes and high brows. “Once a year I get to dance with a man who encourages me to find joy in my life, and I will not deny myself that after having been denied so many other things.”
She walked past her mother on the way to the doorway and did not stop walking until she reached the ballroom and the buzz of the crowd rose up to replace the buzzing of her own angry and irritated thoughts.
From the doorway she surveyed the room, bedecked in the usual colors and light of the season. She breathed it in—the scent of cloves and ginger in the air mingling with the hot wax of the candles. There was magic in this season, like an island in the middle of an angry sea. When David met her eyes and smiled, she felt the tension seep away even more. He turned back to his conversation with Pauly, but instead of crossing to the group of women made up of her family and friends, she headed toward him.
Happy Christmas, she said to herself as she crossed the floor with bold and determined steps. David was her gift, and she would enjoy every moment of it.
“Good evening, David,” she said when she reached the group. He turned toward her in surprise, and she realized that she’d used his given name in a place where she should not have, for the second time in only a handful of minutes. She felt her neck flush in the moments he took to recover himself. She could turn and run back for the safety of the women, but that would only make things more awkward. Better that she complete her mission before retreating.
“Good evening, Mrs. Henderson,” he said, inclining his head while holding her eyes through the movement. There was curiosity and concern in his face, and she wished she had thought this through better than she had.
“I hope that you have reserved the Christmas waltz for me.”
The slight tightening of his jaw revealed his discomfort with her forwardness, but he was still a gentleman. “Of course,” he
finally said.
“Very good,” she said, and she turned quickly so as to remove herself from the awkward exchange she’d created.
She joined the group of women—many of whom had been watching her—and made conversation as though nothing were out of the ordinary. Within a quarter of an hour she had recovered from her fit of anxiety. Paul had married in the fall, and Marta visited with his wife at length and found her very good company. Only one of Marta’s sisters had been able to attend this year; with their growing families it was harder and harder for them to come all the way to Winchester, and Marta worried that one day she too would be unable to attend. Would that be for the best? she wondered when her mother’s admonition rang back to her. Was it possible that her mother was right regarding the appropriateness of Marta dancing with a man she felt warmly toward? What if dancing with David made things worse for her marriage? If she did not dance with David, would she forget to compare what her marriage was to what she had once believed it could be?
When the Christmas waltz was announced, Marta looked around but did not see David approaching. She felt her chest begin to heat up—perhaps she had put him off. Maybe that was for the best, though her skin prickled in response to the possibility. When he materialized from the card room and made his way across the floor, she was able to breathe again, but her anxiety did not disappear. His expression was neutral, and he did not meet her eye when he collected her with a stiff bow and a tense arm.
They fell into their positions as easily as ever, and she was ready when he cued the first step.
“I am sorry for embarrassing you,” she said once the other couples were moving and she felt the veil of privacy fall upon them. “I should not have broken protocol like I did.”
“Paul spoke to me,” David said, not meeting her eye but smiling at another couple on the dance floor as they passed. “Just before you approached.”
“What did he say?”
“That your mother is concerned about the attention I have been paying toward you. He asked if I might consider forgoing the dance this year to set her at ease.”
A Christmas Waltz Page 6
