Love in Three-Quarter Time

by Dina Sleiman

  “That would be me, ma’am. At your service.” He offered his elbow in gallant fashion.

  She laced her hand through. Although sparks did not fly to the same degree they might with Robbie, it felt pleasant and safe tucked away there. “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Lorimer. I’ve heard only your name from the Beaumonts.” She ushered him into the parlor, but there led him near the fire instead of toward the ballroom beyond.

  “I suppose you’d call me a circuit-riding preacher.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.” That could put a kink in her plans. She drew her hand away and turned to better face him. “So should I call you Reverend? Parson?”

  “Most folks just call me Lorimer, ma’am. And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “I’m Miss Constance Cavendish of Richmond, the new dance instructor come to teach the girls.”

  Lorimer nodded as he took her in, head to toe. Not in a manner that made her cringe, but rather one that left her with a sense of admiration. “I’d say you’re well suited for the job. I noticed in the hallway how gracefully you moved.”

  A concern struck her. “Do you dance, Mr. Lorimer? I seem to recall that some preachers do not.”

  A smile played on the firm lips above his chiseled jaw. “I like the way Paul said it: ‘I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some.’ If it’s important to the Beaumonts that I dance, I don’t see any harm. God gave us this marvelous life, and it’s meant to be enjoyed. Do you agree, Miss Cavendish?”

  Meant to be enjoyed. Marvelous life. Constance covered her confusion with another flutter of lashes. God had been nothing but a harsh critic, a purveyor of divine retribution, in her mind for the past five years. And before that, he’d barely crossed her thoughts at all. But circuit riders were known for their intense study of the Scriptures, so perhaps she should take Lorimer’s word on the issue.

  Not that she considered anything to be wrong with dance herself. In fact, until this moment she had never paused to contemplate the matter. Dance was her bliss, her one ray of hope on a dim horizon. The only true pleasure she’d permitted for herself in ever so long. “I certainly hope you’re correct, Mr. Lorimer. Because I do so enjoy dancing, and I’ve based my life’s work upon it.”

  “Then why are we standing in the parlor, Miss Cavendish? We have a party to attend. To everything there is a season. Is there not? ‘A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’ Shall we?”

  Did this Lorimer have a Scripture for every occasion? Yet the alluring glimmer in his eye belied any rigid piety. The man embraced life and brimmed with merriment.

  An odd, melting sensation overtook her as he grinned down from his towering height. Not quite fire and passion, but a soothing warmth. She drank in his masculine, leather scent and his gold hair sparkling with red glints in the firelight brought memories of Papa to mind.

  And his descriptions of God and life had already set her mind reeling. She could learn much from this man. Suddenly the next few months took on a new appeal. To everything there is a season, he had said. Perhaps the time to mourn had come to an end, and Constance’s time to dance would flourish once again.

  She returned Lorimer’s smile. Not with a coquettish simper, but with earnest appreciation for this wise and engaging man.

  “First I must know, Mr. Lorimer. How is it that you’ve come to be such close friends with the Beaumonts?”

  “Robbie brought me here years ago to hold services for the slaves. He wanted them trained in God’s Word. I started having dinner with the family when I visited, and before long they couldn’t get rid of me.”

  Pushing aside inconvenient thoughts of Robbie, she focused on the portion of his answer that pleased her. “Train the slaves, you say? Perhaps we are kindred spirits, sir.”

  “What do you say we join the others, Miss Cavendish, before tongues begin to wag? Later, let’s have refreshments together, and we’ll talk.”

  Constance hadn’t thought of that. Too many handsome men in one household evidently still addled her brain.

  * * *

  Robbie led his sister, Molly, dressed in a formal version of her typical pink gown, through the steps of the country dance. Although far from graceful or light on her feet, she performed better than Dolly had. And both girls moved with greater skill than he expected after a mere two weeks. He presumed Constance would be staying for a while.

  His sister smiled up at him from a plumply pretty face framed by russet curls. He recalled the day he’d first seen the twins, squalling in their cradle. The babes had captured his heart and never let go. Hard to believe they were nearly grown. A twinge of thanks filled him that Constance had entered their lives at such a pivotal moment.

  Mother did her best with the girls, but deep down the woman remained an innkeeper’s daughter, always nervous to keep up with fashions and society, always monitoring her speech and her manners. On Miss Cavendish, such niceties sprung from deep within, innate to the core of her being.

  And tonight he’d seen a bit of the fire, the life he had thought long dead. For her sake, he was glad. Although for his own, he remained uncertain. Old feelings stirred within him as they danced. Old feelings, no doubt, best left forgotten.

  Tonight he almost wished he could whisk her away and rescue her from genteel poverty as she’d begged him to years ago. But that option died on that fateful night along with her father. He couldn’t live a lie. And he could never tell her the truth.

  Robbie twirled his sister on the appointed beat.

  But he wished Constance all the joy she deserved. Clearly she had changed. No longer spoiled or selfish, she’d mellowed into a lovely young woman. Perhaps she might meet a gentleman in Charlottesville who knew nothing of her past and could give her the life she had left behind. The life Robbie had all but stolen from her.

  He ignored the clutching in his chest caused by such ponderings. Robbie had promised to support Constance, and support her he would.

  As he looped his sister in a circle, he scanned the room and found Constance dancing with Terrence Sugarbaker. Terrence observed Constance with a telling gleam in his eye. Yes, perhaps Sugarbaker would do—quite nicely, in fact. Terrence always had been his closest friend from the society set. Intelligent. Kind. A bit spoiled, but such was to be expected.

  Again Robbie tamped down an uncomfortable sensation forming in his chest.

  The dance concluded. He bowed to his sister and clapped politely for the musicians. “Go find your father, dear. I need a rest.”

  Robbie turned in time to watch Lorimer stalk toward Sugarbaker and Constance. He then took Constance’s arm and swept her toward the refreshment table as she giggled at something witty he had no doubt said. Robbie found a corner wall to lean against and continued his examination of the unwelcome spectacle unfolding before him.

  Constance batted her lashes at Lorimer as they sampled the delicacies upon the table. Robbie knew that maneuver all too well. He had watched their entrapping flutters as he danced with Constance not a half hour earlier. She pressed a hand to her chest, drawing Lorimer’s eye to the creamy décolletage above the neckline of her yellow gown. As she giggled once again, she twirled a copper curl around her slim finger and wrinkled her pert nose.

  He hadn’t seen that nose wrinkle in five years.

  Dash it! The girl had turned all flirtation and charm of a sudden. Could it be merely the party atmosphere? Surely that was not reason enough. Perhaps Constance—or should he say Gingersnap—had been biding her time, awaiting this opportunity all along.

  Lorimer crinkled his eyes at Miss Cavendish in a manner that Robbie by no means appreciated. The enticing young lady ran a finger along her rosy lips in response.

  Robbie could tolerate it no more. Lorimer was not the man for Constance. Just when Robbie had decided to interrupt, Lorimer took a pastry from the table and held it before Constance’s soft, yielding mouth. She licked her lips and then took a bite directly from Lorimer’s hand.

 
All thoughts, all plans, fled Robbie’s mind as pressure filled his head. The room took on a red tint to match the attractive reddish heads now pressed together in tête-à-tête.

  Enough! Robbie needed air. Cold night air. Now.

  * * *

  Once the final guests departed, the Beaumonts all excused themselves for bed, but Constance remained far too energized to sleep. She headed to the verandah for a quiet moment to replay the evening in her mind. What a night it had been. She sighed in delight. As she stepped out onto the porch and stared at the bright moon to the left, a creak to her right startled her, and she gasped.

  “Nice to see the old Gingersnap back in fine form tonight.” Robbie stepped out of the shadows into a confrontational stance.

  “Robbie? How dare you frighten me like that?”

  “Me? I was innocently standing on the porch. Getting some cool air. Things grew a bit heated tonight, don’t you think? Or perhaps we’d need to check with Lorimer on that.”

  “Lorimer? What does he have to do with anything? You were the one who nearly danced me to a frenzy.”

  “Two beaux for the price of one, I suppose. Like the old days. And here I almost believed you had changed.”

  Her temper rose to an unmanageable level. The familiarity of it comforted her. Anger was so much better than the dangerous feelings earlier this evening that threatened to expose her heart once again.

  Allowing the molten lava to flow through her veins full force, she let the gingersnaps fly. “You cad! How dare you? For once in five years I let myself have a good time, and you have the audacity to ruin it for me.” She shoved him backward. “Mr. Lorimer is a charming friend. The first man who has not treated me as if I were a pariah in as long as I can remember.” Other than Mr. Franklin, but she couldn’t be expected to count him. “I had fun tonight,” she continued. She poked Robbie in the chest as her eyes bored into him. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Robbie met her glare. “Why Lorimer, of all people? What do you see in the man?”

  She paused to consider that and watched Robbie’s face in the moonlight. Why must they always find themselves surrounded by moonlight?

  His lip twitched. His eyes glared. But something in his features expressed a certain wistfulness as well.

  “Ha! You’re jealous.” She couldn’t keep the smug grin from her face.

  “I am not. Don’t be ridiculous. I said we didn’t suit, and I meant it. I simply feel a debt to your poor mother. She would not be at all pleased to see you with Lorimer, and while you’re in my family’s home, I’m obligated to protect you.”

  “From Lorimer? Why he’s the gentlest man I’ve ever met. He has not an impure motive in his head. If ever there were a man after God’s own heart, it’s Lorimer.”

  “He’s a drifter without two pennies to rub together. That’s all your mother will see. If you must flirt and cavort like the old days, at least do so with someone appropriate.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m no longer considered a ‘catch’ by the society set. The twenty-one-year-old, impoverished, spinster daughter of a thief, that’s all I am now. My last chance for a decent marriage flew out the window when you deserted me.” She took a step toward him.

  He did not back away. Instead, he rubbed his chin in an evil sort of manner. His left eyebrow rose and froze in that awkward position. “I see now. How stupid I’ve been. You’ve come to snare a husband. This isn’t about dancing. You’ve come here where no one knows your history, and you plan to start fresh.”

  “I…” However had he come up with that? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. A fresh start, yes. With employment, not marriage.

  “Fine then. I’ll help you.” He crossed his arms and tapped his toe as he considered. “I suppose you deserve at least that from me. I said I would support you, and I will. But stay away from Lorimer.”

  “What’s wrong with Lorimer? He’s your friend. You brought him here.”

  “To preach to the workers, not court genteel ladies. He’s little better than a vagabond. Hardly educated, even. How about Sugarbaker? He seemed quite smitten with you.”

  “If I were looking for a husband, which I am not, I would never consider a pompous plantation owner. I’ve had my fill, thank you very much.” She stomped her foot and turned her back to him, watching the moon glare at a distance over the trees.

  “He would say his father was the owner, but that’s irrelevant. You don’t like him, fine. He’d be a stretch for you, anyway.”

  “What?” She twisted back toward him.

  Robbie feigned a contemplative expression. “Let’s see. There’s Joe Sprague at the mill. He’s single and doing well for himself. And Michael Denby owns several businesses. He’s building a hotel right now, but I could probably persuade him to join us for dinner sometime.”

  “Stop this!”

  “I’m only getting started. I know how you love a passel of beaux surrounding you. Only leave me out of the bunch this time. I’ll find you someone. You just keep on dancing and don’t worry your pretty little head.”

  This was by far the most nonsensical conversation Constance had ever partaken in. Her mind spun from the absurdity of it. She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Robert Montgomery, you gave up your right to tell me what to do long ago. Here’s my plan. I shall befriend Lorimer because I find him fascinating. I will not take orders from you. And I will never marry, not your miller nor your man of business nor anyone else.” And that’s where her temper got the best of her. “Most especially not a spoiled, heartless, arrogant fop like you!”

  Constance turned on her heel, lifted her skirts, and stomped into the house on that dramatic note. She had meant to forget about Robbie, not enrage him. Although as she thought further, she found his fit rather amusing.

  Never mind that. Constance had no need of a hothead like Robbie. He was changeable, temperamental, unpredictable—and a man prone to breaking hearts. She need not bear Robbie’s peevishness when the thoroughly good and delightful Mr. Lorimer would be in town for several more days.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning Constance convinced the Beaumonts to let her attend Lorimer’s Bible meeting with the servants. They had discovered so many common interests the evening before, and Constance wished to watch Lorimer at his duties. Circuit riders had long been thought dashing and elusive figures by the Cavendish women. Thank goodness Robbie had not come to breakfast. He would have protested for certain.

  She sat upon a rough bench made from half a split log in a clearing near the slave cabins. The hard wood pricked through her skirts. She despaired snagging the thin muslin of her gown but found the makeshift furniture appropriate to the situation. The life of a slave proved hard and prickly in its entirety.

  Constance surveyed the tiny cabins. Most could fit into half the downstairs of her Richmond townhouse. She regretted her complaints on that count. And the Beaumonts were kind owners who cared about the welfare of their slaves.

  Shifting her focus back to the service, Constance listened to the music that had just begun. Rich voices surrounding her sang with such depth of emotion, their praises rising to the heavens and meeting God’s ears, no doubt, unlike any prayer Constance had ever uttered. Patience could sing with the lilting notes of an angel, but the earthy yet spiritual tones of this congregation struck Constance’s ears as the most beautiful sounds she’d ever encountered.

  For a moment she let the strains wash over her, and then focused more specifically upon the lyrics.

  Give me joy in my heart, keep me singing

  Give me joy in my heart, I pray.

  How could they sing of joy when they lived in such bondage? Yet the expressions of rapture on their upturned faces spoke of a deep and abiding joy, the likes of which Constance had never experienced.

  As they broke into the chorus, the praise they sang about began to flow through their taut bodies as well. They swayed in rhythm like trees in the wind.

  Sing hosanna, sing hosanna,


  Sing hosanna to the King of kings!

  Several raised their hands and waved.

  A man shouted, “Glory!”

  Constance’s new friend, Martha, seeming overcome by the moment, stamped her feet and spun in a circle as she sang. While touched, Constance couldn’t fathom worshiping God in such an exuberant and expressive manner. Church was meant to be staid and reverent, quiet and awe-inspiring in a formal, liturgical sort of way.

  Wasn’t it?

  Give me oil in my lamp, keep me burning,

  Give me oil in my lamp, I pray.

  Keep me burning? Who on earth had written such a song? Constance had spent the past five years learning to keep her fiery emotions beneath the surface. She could not afford to let them burn. Gingersnap had sizzled and sparked, and look where it took her. Her family lost everything, and it was her fault. God had not ceased to punish her since.

  Lorimer, dressed in his own buckskin clothing, caught her eye and grinned. Indeed, she should amend that last thought. For once God had allowed her one small pleasure. Lorimer had a special light in his eye that Constance longed to explore. She should ask him about the words to the song. No doubt he would have some Scripture to reference.

  The man had given his life in service to others. In service to “the least of these” he had said, quoting Jesus. Having attended church infrequently most of her life, Constance could not quote the words of Jesus with such ease. Nor had she thought to serve those her culture said should do the serving. Yes, this Lorimer fascinated her like no other man she had ever met.

  Perhaps if she studied Lorimer, learned from him, she might discover how to please God and stave off his wrath. Perhaps she could learn to live freely and lightly as Lorimer did, as the slaves surrounding her seemed to live despite their heavy lots in life. Suddenly she felt as though she was the one burdened by chains.