Riding Shotgun

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I hate this,” Cig mumbled, wishing Tom would return from Wessex. At least then she might escape this lesson.

  “Hate it silently.” Margaret reached over and took Cig’s hand and bowed, playing the gentleman’s part. “Curtsy.”

  Cig wobbled down.

  “I’ve seen eighty-year-old women curtsy with more grace than that. Now do as I do. See, put your right foot behind your left, just turn the toe in ever so slightly and there. Arms out at a pleasing angle, hands just so.”

  Cig observed the fluid movement of her graceful sister-in-law. Grumbling, she tried to imitate it.

  Margaret lifted Pryor’s hands with her own. “Up a bit, you don’t want to give the impression of drooping, like a wilting flower. Better. Now again. Much better.”

  “Liar.”

  “How is it you never learned to curtsy?”

  “I went to cotillions but it wasn’t the same. No curtsy and the dances are different.”

  “Am I to gather from this that the social graces have eroded?”

  “Eroded? Hell, Margaret, they were washed out into the Atlantic with the Industrial Revolution.” Cig practiced a few more dips. “Never mind about the Industrial Revolution, but your children will live to see the beginning of it. And the queer thing is that Virginians believe they are the most civilized people in America if not on earth. Compared to you, though, we’re a crude lot.”

  “Ah, well, there must be compensating gifts. God never closes one door but what He opens another.”

  “I haven’t found it yet.” Cig put her hands on her hips. “Will my curtsy pass muster?”

  “No. Practice makes perfect.”

  “What else do I have to know for this Christmas ball?”

  “Just follow me. If you can dance, your wits will save you in conversation, so don’t worry about that…. Now, I’ve bowed to you and you’ve curtsied to me. Next I lead you onto the floor.” Margaret lifted Cig’s hand up high. They traipsed a few steps. “Pryor…” She motioned for her to back up.

  “What am I doing over here?”

  “Dancing.”

  “But you’re over there.”

  “Of course. You’re with the ladies and I’m with the gentlemen.”

  “You mean no gentleman is going to hold me in his arms?” Disappointment hung on every syllable.

  “Certainly not!”

  Cig racked her brain to remember when the sexes began dancing close. Was it the waltz? “Are we doing a minuet?”

  “Yes. There are quite a few steps to learn. Part of one’s standing in society depends on this. You must dance well.”

  “All right.”

  “Now I will turn left and you will turn right. Imagine that you’ve a lady in front of you and one behind, so you must keep in step or there will be a frightful collision, especially if it’s Amelie Boothrod.”

  “She colors her hair. That reddish tint is a color not seen in nature.”

  Margaret laughed. “She swears she doesn’t, not that I’ve brought it up to her, but Kate deVries has. Kate will say anything as I’m sure you gathered.”

  “Who knows how to color hair?”

  “Wealthy ladies bring over indentured servants skilled in enhancing ladies’ gifts or lack thereof. After a few years their term of service is up, they’ve a pocketful of money, and they set up shop… it’s discreet, usually a millinery shop or a dressmaker’s establishment. The hair coloring is done in the back. They’ll also visit you in your home if your servants can be bribed into silence. There’s no such thing as a hungry hairdresser.”

  Cig remarked, “Gossip, the fuel of life!”

  “In Virginia, yes!”

  “Have you ever noticed, when we talk it’s gossip, when men do it’s the “news?”

  Margaret laughed. “Keep in step.” She clapped her hands in rhythm. “Now turn right, come down the line, hold your hand up. Stop. Now nod to your partner.”

  “Would that be you? If you were a man, I mean?”

  “Depends on the dance.”

  “What a wonderful way to be with men. One gets to exchange a few steps with everyone.”

  “And in front of everyone.”

  “Perfect.” Cig smiled. “How am I doing?”

  “Glide your feet along. Don’t lift them.”

  “Ah.” Cig half-slid, half-glided.

  “Better. It’s a bad sign for a lady to have a heavy foot and as you will slightly lift your skirts from time to time you don’t want a big one either.”

  “Margaret, I’m not dainty, and neither are my feet. I tower over everyone but Lionel.”

  “Your feet are proportionate. Stop. Yes. Now come towards me, pass and then turn to face me as I do the same to you.”

  “This is the Virginia Reel.”

  “What?”

  “This is a fancy version of the Virginia Reel. It’s a dance we still do.”

  “Then you’re not entirely uncivilized.”

  “Rudiments of elegance linger.” Cig smiled.

  “Lift your chin up, Pryor. You don’t want to drop your head. Apart from being clumsy it makes one look old. Double chins will come soon enough.”

  “Perish the thought.” Cig felt a sharp twinge of nervousness. This kind of dancing was a true performance and stage fright was creeping in even here in front of the massive fireplace. Grace would have been in her element. “Margaret, do I have to dance with any man who asks me?”

  “Yes. I told you. It would be rude to refuse a gentleman.”

  The corner of Cig’s mouth twitched upward. “What if he’s not a gentleman?”

  “You wouldn’t be a lady to say so.”

  Cig bounced around a bit. “I suppose Lionel will pounce on me.”

  “Keep your head up. Up, up, up! Considering he shared your bed I guess he will. Up!”

  “It is!”

  “Now it is.”

  “You know, I look at Lionel and I see Blackie. I don’t ever want to fall on my face again like that—in this life or the next.”

  “You’ll fall on your face if you don’t learn these steps.”

  “I’m not good at this.”

  “The music helps.”

  “Grace is the dancer.”

  “Well, Grace isn’t dancing at the Christmas ball, you are. Come back to the middle,” Margaret ordered her. “Begin again. With the curtsy. Good.”

  Cig watched as Margaret pointed her toe to coach her.

  Margaret continued, “Don’t point your toe like that, Pryor. That’s what the gentleman will do. You point yours into the line. This way we are mirror images of one another.”

  “I get it.” The symmetry of the dances was part of their appeal.

  “Practice now.”

  They ran through the steps one more time. Cig held her hands in the time-out sign. Margaret kept dancing. “Time out… stop.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I did.” She made the T sign again. “That means stop in my time. We have a game called football, except it’s not soccer—”

  Merrily, Margaret imitated the sign. Cig stopped. “Pryor, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Let me start again. There’s a game in my time, I think it started in the late nineteenth century, it’s violent but very addictive—that is, you can’t stop once you’ve started. Teamwork is the key…” she noticed Margaret’s bemused stare. “Anyway, when you need a break you do this.”

  “Why not stop completely?”

  “No. It’s a time-out.” She raised her voice. “Time out. You go to the sidelines to talk to your coach. He helps you and you run back in again.”

  “That’s cheating.”

  “No, Margaret, it’s in the rules. Trust me. I am serious about football.”

  “I can see that.”

  “The ball is elliptical.” Cig drew a football in the air with her finger.

  “Shouldn’t it be round?”

  “No. This makes it harder because the ball fl
ops around except when you throw a pass. Then it spirals.”

  “Pryor, this is a most peculiar game.”

  “Well,” Cig’s lower lip jutted out like Tom’s when perturbed, “what sports do you like?”

  “Horse racing, as you know.” She thought a moment. “I think I should like court tennis if ever I visited London to see such a game, and fencing, I like that.”

  “What about track and field? You know, foot races, throwing the javelin, that stuff.”

  “I like foot races.” Margaret put her hands on her hips. “Hunting, of course.” She sat down. Cig sat next to her then rose to put another log on the fire. “Why did you not tell me straightaway about you and Lionel?”

  “I couldn’t say anything on the way back from Wessex. Tom would jump to conclusions.”

  “You had other opportunities.”

  “I forgot—really, I did. Or rather whenever I thought of it Tom would be around or Marie. Fortunately, she’s rotund so you hear her coming.” She smiled, lips together. “Is it a bad thing in this time to go to bed with a man if you’re not married to him?”

  “Not so bad. It’s better than suffering from the green sickness.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t use that expression?” As Cig shook her head Margaret explained. “It’s used to indicate that a lady needs time with a gentleman.”

  “Our expression is more crude… needs to get laid.”

  “Ah, I see what you mean.” Margaret suggested, “If you’re going to pace about bring us some apple cider.”

  Cig opened the back door, dashed to the summer kitchen and returned with an earthenware jug of cider. She poured two glasses and returned to Margaret.

  “Thank you. Sit down, Pryor.”

  “Restless.”

  “Green sickness. A bad case.” Margaret laughed.

  “Maybe I didn’t use my best judgment. He’s so much like Blackie—oh, I don’t know. But you say it isn’t awful?”

  Margaret quizzically looked at Pryor. “It’s natural. It’s better if you’re wed but…” She shrugged.

  Cig wished William and Mary had taught classes in real-life history. She knew dates, battles, and treaties, but nothing of the texture of life in other times. “Sex is natural, but things happened later—in the nineteenth century, I guess—and people began to regard it as sinful but necessary. I wonder if I’m putting this right. The opinion was, men desired sex. Women didn’t.”

  “Absurd.” Margaret couldn’t believe it for she was a product of an earthy age.

  “Yes. But since that time these ideas have infected us like a sickness. Some people rebel and become promiscuous. Others,” she thought a moment, “suffer. Mostly people turn into hypocrites. They say they believe in abstinence or faithfulness to their partners but they don’t practice it.”

  “That’s true in any time. I think the first words spoken by man were, ‘Not me.’”

  Cig laughed. “You’re right! You’ve made me feel better. You don’t think I’m a whore.”

  Margaret frowned. “No one would ever use that word, Pryor. But Lionel is determined to marry you and you’ve given him hope.”

  “I know. I was stupid.”

  “No. Just a woman. He is a handsome man.”

  “Do you think he’ll say anything to Tom?”

  “No.” Margaret was firm.

  “Do whites marry Indians?”

  “Yes. Not many do, but some.”

  “What about sex with servants?”

  “Of course.” Margaret finished her glass. “That will always happen. You use the word curiously. To me sex means male or female.”

  “It does for me, too, but sex can also mean the act of copulation.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I’m not sure when that started. I know my grandmother never used the word that way—but then I’m not sure she ever discussed these matters.”

  “Let me dress your hair for the ball.”

  “What made you think of that?”

  “You ran your hand through your hair.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “No, but you can’t wear it braided like that. Not to a ball.”

  “Margaret, this is making me nervous.”

  She held out her glass for more cider. It had a kick to it. “All will be well. At Edward Hill’s I carefully told a few ladies that you’d endured a temporary loss of memory. You needn’t fear not recognizing people if Tom or I aren’t beside you. They’ll understand. After all, you do have your wits about you and people, quite healthy people, lose their memories sometimes.”

  Cig coolly appraised her. “I underestimated you.”

  30

  Because of the snows the James was higher than usual, the current swift. Cig fixed her eyes on the dock on the south shore because if she looked down into the river she’d become seasick. She loved ferries and would take them across the Potomac, the Mississippi, wherever she found them. This ferry, not motor powered of course, proved how consistent the art of crossing a river was over the centuries. Burly John MacKinder, notable for his heavy beard and big red hands, gripped the tiller while punters stood on either side of the craft. Not that there’d be much punting at this depth but when they closed to shore the long poles would be dipped into the water and mud for a directional shove.

  The distance between Buckingham and Eppington couldn’t have been more than seven miles, but two of those miles were over water. John had crisscrossed the river throughout the day as people gathered for the Christmas ball given by Francis Eppes and his family.

  The sunset melted over the waters, transforming them into a scarlet path. Margaret pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders. Tom chatted with the other men at the prow.

  Cig’s heart beat faster as they approached the dock. Parties excited her, even though she had been shy as a child. Her great-aunt had coached her on how to talk to people she didn’t know. G-Mom had advised her at the tender age of six to look for special jewelry or the color of someone’s shirt and to start from there. People love to talk about themselves, G-Mom swore; the secret was to get them started. Gig’s first conversational success was Binky West’s mother, deep in the grape.

  Cig smiled thinking of the skinny, middle-aged woman she had approached at a hunt club party. “Mrs. West, you have the prettiest pearls. I bet you know a lot about the ocean.” This sent the blue-haired lady into fits of laughter; but she did talk about her pearls, how pearls are formed, the difference between white and black pearls and of course, freshwater pearls as well. By the time Mrs. West had exhausted her discourse on the secretions of the oyster, Gig knew that G-Mom had given her one of the keys to survival: the ability to talk to anyone. She tested her abilities on unwary adults after church, at school gatherings, at hunt club meetings, and best of all, at her parents’ parties.

  Adults would exclaim, “What unusual poise Cig has.”

  Well, she had to have something since Grace clearly had the beauty.

  The ferry bumped into the dock, rocking the passengers off their feet. The men leaped off first, offering their hands to the ladies. This also afforded them the delicious opportunity of lifting the ladies onto the dock. Cig, too big for such gallantry, nonetheless had her hand held tightly by John MacKinder whom she liked on sight.

  “Thank you, Mr. MacKinder,” she said.

  “Why, ‘iffin I lacked the bark I’d swim ye across.”

  She squeezed his hand and then dropped it as they hurried to the two carriages sent for them from the big house.

  “Where is John MacKinder from?” Cig whispered to Margaret.

  “Highlands. Hardworking man. His wife is crippled now, poor thing. She lost the sensation in her legs then grew dizzy. After that she shriveled before your eyes. He’s a good man. You’ve known him since childhood.”

  “Thanks, Margaret. What would I do without you?”

  “Fall on your face.” Margaret’s hazel eyes twinkled.

  Tom heard them laughing. “Margaret, I’ve n
ever heard you laugh so much as since Pryor came home to us.”

  Edward hill III’s wife called out from the other carriage, “You see, Tom, Pryor’s safe return heralds good fortune. Good fortune starts with laughter, I always say.”

  Tom doffed his hat to her. “Fine philosophy.” Then he hopped into the carriage while the driver, a slender fellow, clucked to the matched pair.

  A candle blazed in Eppington’s every window. Lanterns hung along the drive created a festive air.

  The house was a simple, long white clapboard structure with neat black shutters. White clapboard dependencies stood near the main house. Eppington made up in warmth and simplicity for what it lacked in grandeur. When the head servant opened the door, music and laughter flooded over the lawn.

  A tall, lean Creole, Henry Jardin, the head servant, had been born in the West Indies. Clean-shaven, with skin the color of café-au-lait and soft green eyes, he was a breathtaking example of masculine beauty. He could remember names, protocol, and who was feuding with whom, which endeared him to Francis Eppes, whose memory was porous. He also served as secretary to the energetic man whose business interests encompassed both the Old World and the New.

  “Henry, good to see you.” Tom clapped him on the back.

  Henry pointed the way to the table as servants took their wraps. He whispered to Cig, “You’re a vision tonight.”

  Half the colony of Virginia turned out for the party. Children, dressed as miniature versions of their elders, raced and screamed throughout the rooms. The elderly were as animated as the children. Holly berries and big waxy magnolia leaves decorated the table and the rooms.

  Cig marveled at how attractive people appear in massed candlelight. Having known only the harshness of electrical light, she was amazed at the emotional difference candlelight created.

  Before she could study the surroundings more clearly she felt light pressure on her elbow.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Patrick Fitzroy handed her rum punch in a handblown crystal glass.

  Her heart gave a thump. “Fitz, I’m so glad you’re here, too.”

  “May I escort you to the table, or shall I bring you a plate?”