Love in Three-Quarter Time

by Dina Sleiman

  Perhaps her strategy was mistaken and she should settle down in the cracks instead. Pondering her dilemma, she listened to Jack’s stirring rendition of the popular new “Star Spangled Banner.” She’d already sat through a rousing version of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” That song had been more fun, especially when his wife pounded the seat with her bronze hand in a driving Indian rhythm. His current tune struck her as far too poignant.

  As they topped the hill, the pungent scent of fresh earth filled her nose, and another tall, white plantation home came into view, pretty as a painting. This one could almost be mistaken for a large farm house with its simple construction, but the long line of windows and third story gave it away. Not to mention the Negro slaves scattered throughout the newly turned field.

  Trader Jack hit the crescendo of his song with great enthusiasm. “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  The irony of the lyrics against the backdrop did not escape Constance.

  For years she labored under confusion but had at long last come to a few sound conclusions. One, slavery was a wretched institution. And two, it was destined to fail. She no longer blamed her slaves for running away. Yet how Sissy could have betrayed her, deceived her, and deserted her after all they shared together, Constance still could not fathom.

  The familiar slice of pain to her chest shook her from her stupor. The question had proven futile time and again. Perhaps the questions she should be asking pertained to her reception at White Willow Hall. For example, what if they turned her out? What if they’d found someone else? Or what if word of Papa’s treachery had reached that far?

  No, she was not prepared to face those questions either. She bounced her way to the back of the seat and leaned between Trader Jack and his elegant wife. She appeared years younger than Jack, with his unruly white hair and beard—although upon closer inspection, the wisdom in her black eyes suggested perhaps she had aged gracefully.

  “Need stop?” the woman asked in her broken speech.

  “No, I simply wondered why my beautiful concert ended so abruptly.”

  Trader Jack tossed back his head and laughed. “Well, I’ll say you are right easy to please, Miss Cavendish.”

  His wife laughed with him, a sound as melodious as Jack’s singing.

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked earlier, but what is your name, ma’am?”

  “I am Dancing Waters.” She spoke the words slowly and carefully.

  “You don’t say. I’m a dance instructor.”

  “No disrespect intended, Miss Cavendish, but no one dances like my wife here.”

  “I don’t doubt you. I noticed how lightly she moved on her feet as we loaded the wagon. Made me wish for a pair of moccasins.”

  “She’s a sight to behold.”

  “I dare say she’s elegant enough for the drawing rooms of London.”

  Dancing Waters spoke to Trader Jack in a rush of French too quick for Constance to catch the full meaning. But her use of the cultured language reinforced the image of a woman serving tea.

  People were people. Constance had learned as much in her childhood despite Papa’s best attempts to teach her otherwise.

  Jack and Dancing Waters exchanged a few more comments in a mix of languages she could not follow. Finally Jack translated, “She wants me to sing another song. A new one I just learnt.”

  “Perfect.”

  Constance settled herself into a crack between the scratchy sacks this time. They surrounded her like a hug. She reclined against the side of the wagon, hands behind her head, staring up at the blue sky and puffy white clouds as he sang.

  I am going to leave you tomorrow,

  To sail on the ocean so blue;

  To leave all my friends and relations,

  I have come now to bid you adieu.

  Tears filled Constance’s eyes, and the clouds blurred. The song struck too close to her current situation, but she couldn’t bear for him to stop. Moisture rolled down her cheeks and back toward her hair. She’d hardly given Mother, Felicity, and Grammy a kiss good-bye. At least she’d bid Patience a proper farewell at the mercantile.

  Then meet me by the moonlight, love, meet me,

  I want to see you alone;

  To tell of the heart that is breaking,

  To leave my love and my home.

  As if the song were not troublesome enough, images of Robbie in the moonlit library filtered through her mind. She pictured herself swirling in his arms once again. Felt his lips warm and tingling against hers. Oh her heart was breaking. He’d rejected her coldly, dashing her last hope, causing her to lose both love and home in one swift stroke.

  How could she bear to see him again?

  CHAPTER 4

  Finally, in the afternoon on the third day, they pulled through the stone-and-iron gates, then up a long winding drive. Once past a grove of trees, it came into view. White Willow Hall. To the right, she spied its namesake, weeping slim leaves over a small pond. With the home’s brown brick structure, soaring white columns, and ornamental dome upon the roof, it must have been built in the style of the nearby Monticello.

  Though thankful to have arrived, she still had not decided if she should ask Trader Jack to stay while she made her inquiries. If he waited for her outside, it would be all too easy for Mrs. Beaumont to send her packing. But if she truly was rejected, she would hate to be stranded miles from Charlottesville with only a few coins in her reticule.

  Perhaps the best recourse would be to ascertain whether a dance teacher had been hired before sending Jack on his way.

  As they pulled in front of the elegant portico, a tall, efficient-looking maidservant bustled past with a large jar of preserved apples in hand.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Constance called.

  The brown-skinned woman stopped and shot Constance a curious look from beneath her beige kerchief.

  “Pardon me,” Constance tried again.

  “Yes’m,” the woman said, looking Constance straight in the eye. Her earnest brown stare reminded Constance of Sissy.

  In that moment, all Constance’s resentment toward Sissy slipped away, and she sensed she had found a friend in this woman. “Do you work in the house?”

  The woman’s chin tilted up an inch, revealing a slim column of smooth mahogany. “I sure enough do. How can I be helpin’ you, ma’am?”

  “Do you know if the Beaumonts have secured a dance instructor for their daughters yet?”

  “Mercy! I wish you could hear Mrs. Beaumont going on some about that hoity-toity French dance teacher and when’s he a comin’ from Richmond. And who does he think he is.” She swiveled her head to glance about and then lowered her voice. “Between you and me, I don’t think he’ll ever be comin’.”

  “Wonderful.” Constance snatched up her reticule and valise from among the sacks in the back of the wagon. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”

  “Welcome, ma’am. You seem a right kindly sort. Have you come for a visit?”

  “That I have.”

  “I’ll be sure to serve you up an extra big helpin’ of apple pie tonight.” She motioned to the jar she was carrying.

  “That would be delightful. I think I’m going to like it here.” Constance gave the woman a sincere smile. “Lovely to have made your acquaintance, miss.”

  The servant shook her head in amazement and walked off mumbling. “Just when you think you got them white folks all figured out. Mercy!”

  Constance sprang from the wagon with a young girl’s energy that she hadn’t felt in years. She bid farewell to Jack and Dancing Waters, heeding Jack’s instruction to find his friend Minnie back in Charlottesville if matters somehow went awry.

  With a hearty, “Yah,” Jack cracked the whip. The horses turned on the circular drive and trotted away along with her last link to Richmond and her family. Constance waited until they passed the tree line before mounting the stairs to the giant White Willow Hall. The moment of truth had arrived.

  Bracing herse
lf and attempting to slow her racing heart, she lifted the knocker and tapped several times. A moment later one of the massive double doors opened, and a handsome Negro in a garnet frock coat and white gloves emerged. “May I help you, miss?”

  * * *

  “Coming!” Patience hollered from the kitchen and rushed toward the front of the house. Once upon a time their butler welcomed callers. Not that they received many visitors these days. She pulled open the door to reveal a grinning Mr. Franklin with pie in hand. The sugarcoated dessert smelled of baked cherries.

  He glanced around either side of her. “Good day, Miss Cavendish. Is your sister, Miss Constance Cavendish, available?”

  Patience held in her chuckle. Mr. Franklin continued to search the house for the object of his affection and never bothered to look at her in her loveliest white frock sprigged with pink rosettes. “I’m afraid she’s not here, Mr. Franklin. In fact—”

  “Dear me.” Mr. Franklin now directed his full attention on her. “I had thought to offer this pie a student gave me in hopes that she might ask me to dinner to share it.” His sweet face, pleasing in a bookish and bespectacled sort of way, fell into a sad puppy dog expression as he held the confection before her.

  Patience’s heart clutched in her chest. She reached for his arm and pulled him through the door. “Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Franklin. We could use company. We’ve all had a difficult week.”

  “Difficult? What is it, Miss Cavendish? Might I offer some assistance?” He settled himself onto the settee Patience indicated.

  She took the pie from his hands and laid it on the side table, then perched herself on the edge of a velvet armchair across from him. “Well, I’m glad you are seated, Mr. Franklin, for I have some troubling news to share with you. Constance is no longer in residence here. She has traveled with Trader Jack to Charlottesville in hopes of finding employment as a dance instructor.”

  “Never say so!” Mr. Franklin added an extra dash of outrage to his favorite phrase.

  “I’m afraid it’s true. And she went with my full support.”

  “What of your mother, your little sister, Grammy?”

  “We didn’t actually tell them until after the fact. You see, Mother wished to send a letter first to secure the position, but—”

  “She doesn’t even know if she has the job?” He stood and began to pace the room while running his fingers through his soft, brown hair. Color exploded and settled into pleasant pink splotches in the center of each of his cheeks just above his mutton chops.

  Patience had never seen Mr. Franklin riled so. She had, in fact, not known him capable of such passion. “I’m certain she will obtain the position. The Beaumonts are desperate for a teacher. Their daughters should be coming out into society this year. They wanted Molyneux, but of course he can’t be bothered. Our mothers are friends, and the eldest son even courted Constance years ago.”

  At the word courted the pink flush on Franklin’s face faded to deathly pale. “She’s gone to see an old beau?” He sank back onto the settee, looking as though he might be ill.

  “No, no. I assure you. It’s nothing like that. They parted ways long ago. Constance and I merely decided it was best she go before they find someone else.”

  He took a deep breath. “I see.”

  Patience rather liked this side of Mr. Franklin. If only he would direct such passion toward her instead of Constance…She would not be at all opposed. He thought himself in love with Constance, but the woman he fancied was not the real Constance at all. Merely a mask she had worn since their lives fell apart.

  Now, Patience and Mr. Franklin did in truth have much in common. They were both logical rationalists, and both had a mind for business and education. Patience did not understand what Franklin saw in Constance. While Patience’s practical nature ran straight to her core, Constance’s attempt to imitate such a personality left her rather cold and rigid.

  Perhaps therein lay the allure. The enigma. The mystery. Being a man of science, maybe Mr. Franklin desired to solve this conundrum.

  What he didn’t realize was that they would never be suited. And while Constance might go to great lengths to save her family, being the emotional creature that she remained deep down, she would never sacrifice love.

  Patience desired love as well, but being of a more reasonable nature, she could choose to love a wealthy man as easily as a poor one. While Mr. Franklin earned only a moderate income, in their present circumstances he would do quite nicely. And no one cared for and accepted her family like he did. The Cavendish women might be lovely, but they were not beauties on a scale to overcome the stigma of Papa’s treachery.

  He stood and began to pace once again. “So how is everyone taking it?”

  “Mother is fretting. Grammy is grumpy. And Felicity hasn’t stopped crying since Constance left.”

  As if on cue, Felicity wandered into the room like a ghost. Only her sniffling gave her away. “Have you checked the post yet?”

  “Sweetie,” said Patience, “I’m sure she’s only just arrived. We can’t expect news so soon.”

  Felicity blinked her red-rimmed eyes several times and sniffled once again. “Oh, Mr. Franklin, I hadn’t noticed you were here.” She seemed to pull herself together for his sake, dabbing her face with a handkerchief and digging out a smile before dropping to the settee.

  Mr. Franklin sat beside her and took Felicity’s hands in his own, paying no heed to her moist handkerchief. “Never fear, little one. Things will turn out fine. I’ll go fetch her myself, if need be.”

  Something in his firm tone told Patience he meant every word. She could imagine him using such a voice with his more recalcitrant students. Yes, she definitely liked this side of Mr. Franklin. Perhaps she should seize this opportunity to turn his affections in a new direction.

  CHAPTER 5

  Constance tapped her foot against the costly oriental carpet in the sitting room of White Willow Hall. The rhythm of her toes matched the flapping beat of butterfly wings in her stomach. When the butler had led her past the formal parlor to this more casually appointed room, she realized she was not to be treated as company. Years had passed since she’d set foot in such a grand home, and always before she had been received as an honored guest. Now she had come seeking employment, yet she intended to draw upon the old acquaintance between Mrs. Beaumont and her mother.

  Already, she found herself on dangerous footing.

  “A dance instructor, you say?” The words filtered from the hallway. “A woman? I sent for no woman. I want Molyneux and no one else. This is of the utmost importance. My daughters simply must be trained by the very best. What sort of trick does he think to play on me?”

  “Perhaps you can speak with her to find out.” The suggestion came in the low tones of the butler.

  “I suppose I’ll accomplish nothing by fretting in the hallway.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  The door burst open in a rather unladylike fashion that hinted manners might be more relaxed this far west. “Miss Cavendish, I presume?”

  Constance stood to her feet. “Yes, madam.”

  “I am Mrs. Beaumont. Precisely what is the meaning of all this?” Mrs. Beaumont stood several inches shorter than Constance, yet the plump, pretty brunette of middle years struck fear in her heart. The woman wore an elaborate day dress of tawny muslin—costly, even if a few years behind the trends. Constance resisted the urge to cover the meticulously repaired cuffs of her own dress, although she did shift to better hide her boots.

  Somehow, someway, she must ingratiate herself to this woman. In that moment it came to her. The Yorkshire accent. Broaden the vowels and flatten the ‘a’ sound as in the word dance. Nothing too plebeian, of course. Merely a hint. And thus the decision was made. “I have…I ’ave brought thee a correspondence, madam,” Constance said in some conglomeration of Mother’s and Grammy’s speech. She attempted to still her trembling fingers and offered the envelope from her reticule. “Perhaps this shall expla
in adequately the situation at ’and.”

  Mrs. Beaumont took it while eyeing her.

  Had Constance gone too far in dropping the consonants from her speech? Might she sound too low class for such a position? She must amend the situation at once and hope Mrs. Beaumont attributed her lapse to nerves.

  “We shall see.” Mrs. Beaumont sat upon a cushioned sofa but did not motion for Constance to join her.

  Scanning through the letter, her features relaxed. “Cavendish. Oh yes. I remember. Lovely woman, your mother. She came from England just a few years after me.” She read through to the bottom of the page. Then she looked up at Constance and surveyed her appearance for a moment.

  “So you are an expert dancer.” Her pretty face twisted a bit. “But I still don’t understand why you’ve come here. I sent for Molyneux and only Molyneux. My girls simply must have the best. Has Molyneux referred you in his place? I would have expected a man, at the very least.”

  Yorkshire, Yorkshire, Constance reminded herself, already regretting her charade. Would she spend the next several months struggling to remember? “I must speak the truth, madam. I am barely acquainted with Monsieur Molyneux, but I heard of thy plight through his telling. This I will assure thee, however. I have seen Molyneux’s pupils, and I can do a superior job with thy daughters. I myself was trained by a French instructor of the highest caliber, and I hold in my possession the secret for turning out the very finest dancers.”

  Mrs. Beaumont’s eyes lit up. “A secret, you say? For turning out dancers even better than Molyneux can turn out dancers?” She squealed and clasped her hands together. “Oh I love a good secret. Do tell!” She batted her lashes as she waited expectantly.