by Dina Sleiman
Although Constance could not allow herself to stamp and holler, neither would she any longer sit by the side and observe. She stood and joined the singing for the final round of the chorus.
* * *
“So what did you think?” Lorimer asked her as they followed a trail through the woods back to the house. Gingersnap Cavendish would never have been allowed to walk with a man alone like this. Not that she wouldn’t have managed to anyway. But as a spinster working woman, Constance no longer worried about such strict standards as applied to young ladies seeking a society husband. Besides, if any man could be trusted with a lady’s honor, it must be Lorimer.
Constance pulled a leaf from a nearby bush. She crinkled it in her fingers, somehow comforted by the snap and crunch against her skin. A relaxing herbal scent wafted over her. “They’ve the loveliest voices I’ve ever heard. And your sermon was wonderful. So full of life. Not at all like the rational speeches given by our priest in Richmond.” Yes, Constance needed to better understand this man and his inner life of faith.
“I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Perhaps you could preach at the courthouse in Charlottesville one Sunday.” Last week’s sermon had nearly put her to sleep. “I can’t imagine they would mind since they haven’t even completed their church building yet.”
“I’m dedicated to the calling God gave me, Miss Cavendish.”
“Yes, of course, to minister to the least of these, as you explained.”
“I find that when I stay in God’s will, life moves in an effortless sort of flow. Not to say I never face heartaches or challenges, but I sense I’m carried through them on his breath. Man’s wisdom might mock every decision I make, but I’m content with my path.” It seemed that despite Lorimer’s grounded and masculine way of moving through the woods, his mind remained in some ethereal sphere.
Constance shook her head and studied his handsome profile. “There you go again, Mr. Lorimer. Never have I met such a mystical preacher. Tell me, how did you hear God’s calling? Was it an actual voice?”
He stopped and stared up through the trees to the blue sky beyond. “God is always speaking if we’re quiet enough to listen. Most of the time, it’s more a sense that wells from my heart than an actual voice. And often God speaks to me through his Word. Sometimes a certain phrase jumps off the page in my Bible, shimmering with light, and I know it’s meant for me that day.”
Constance had never dreamed of hearing from God on such a personal level. “Is this teaching particular to a specific denomination, Mr. Lorimer?”
He laughed. “It is a biblical teaching, Miss Cavendish. But dedicated Bible study is a foundation of my belief system.”
Thoughts spun in Constance’s head, but she snatched at the most pressing one. “Tell me about the song we sang today, about the oil in the lamp and the burning. I would think burning would indicate passion, and passion could only lead to sin. Why do you encourage it so in this song?”
“The song refers to the parable of the virgins. Are you familiar with it?”
“I don’t recall the details, although I remember that there is such a parable.”
“Some kept their lamps filled with oil in preparation for the bridegroom, but others let them run out. Oil, incense, and fire are often used as symbols for the Holy Spirit. We need to stay on fire with his presence. Allow him to move in our lives, to burn away our flesh and fill us with his essence. We need to follow his lead and allow him to guide us through life.” Lorimer paused and studied her as if he might say more, but then thought better of it. He placed his hand on her back and ushered her down the trail.
Who was this man and how could he live in such a way? Perhaps she should begin to study the Bible on her own as he suggested, to learn whether he spoke the truth, if nothing else. And perhaps…just perhaps, she should learn to open herself to the move of the Holy Spirit—a pure and holy fire, not merely her own emotional burning.
Although on that matter, she remained confused. After spending so many years earning her own salvation—attempting to rein her inmost nature and work her way to a better life for herself and her family—she could not fathom giving up control to anyone or anything now.
* * *
Lorimer watched Constance disappear into the mammoth doors of the plantation house as if watching her walk into the jaws of hell. He had eschewed all luxuries long ago. While he knew the people in that house were as precious to God as the slaves he ministered to, he still hated to see Constance surrounded by such distracting opulence. The girl seemed confused, wounded.
While she opened up to him last night concerning so many subjects, including politics, religion, and the arts, she remained closemouthed about her life back in Prince George and the tragedy that brought her here. He would have to investigate his suspicions. But he could fill in the gaps well enough to guess that her former extravagant lifestyle tied into her pain.
He shook his head at the architectural monstrosity again. Having grown up on a prosperous farm in Maryland, he couldn’t imagine why any single family would need so much space. They’d had plenty of room and earned it by their own hard work, able to relax each night, exhausted but satisfied, over his mother’s award-winning blueberry pie, by a roaring hearth. And even those sparse niceties he’d given up for the pleasures of the spirit, the satisfaction of working tirelessly for God’s kingdom on earth.
Would Constance ever understand? All he could do was pray for her. He knew he couldn’t rush these matters. Constance would need time to consider all she’d discovered. She would ask more questions when ready. Too many people were Christian only by culture rather than through a personal encounter with Christ.
“Stay away from her, Lorimer.” Robert Montgomery came out of nowhere and interrupted his thoughts. Aggression seethed from the man.
Lorimer had never seen him that way before. “Robbie, is everything all right? Is it something to do with the cause?” Robbie had worked with him in the underground abolitionist movement for years.
“I have a different cause on my mind today. Constance Cavendish. Stay away from that woman. You have no business with someone like her.” Robbie slapped his fist against his open palm.
He didn’t know this Robbie. The Robbie he considered a friend counted all men equal and lived in pursuit of that ideal. “Someone like her? A redhead? A dancer? What are you trying to say?”
“You know exactly what I mean. She’s too good for you. Stay away.”
In a flash, Lorimer understood. “I didn’t realize. I’ll step back. You saw her first, and I don’t doubt you’re the better prospect—although, it’s not like you to point that out.”
Robbie jerked his head. “I’m not interested. I just don’t want you hanging about her. She’s trouble, anyway.”
Lorimer shook his head at the tirade. “So which is it? Is she too good for me, or am I too good for her?”
Robbie appeared stymied for a moment, but then he found himself, hands shaking toward Lorimer. “She’s headstrong, spoiled, and selfish. You’re pure, pious, and poor. Give her up now before someone gets hurt.” Robbie’s hands formed fists again.
Lorimer had no doubt who Robbie planned to see hurt. “I meant no harm. The girl’s wounded. I’m reaching out to her the way I would to anyone else.” Although, Lorimer admitted to himself, if the Lord saw fit, he wouldn’t be opposed to pursuing more with the charming lady of the sunset curls.
“That better be all. I’m warning you, Lorimer.” And with that, Robbie stalked away.
Robbie had meant to scare him off the girl. Instead, Lorimer found himself more intrigued than ever. He wanted to unveil the real Constance. Find out what lay beneath the mask and the pain.
If he were honest with himself, he wanted to know what sort of exceptional young woman could drive the steadfast Robert Montgomery into such a frenzy.
CHAPTER 13
After dinner that night, Constance lingered over jasmine tea with the Beaumonts. The twins had gone to prepare
for a game of cards in the parlor, and Lorimer excused himself early to his room over the barn, where he preferred to stay rather than in the house.
She swished the pale brown liquid with her spoon. While she had enjoyed the brief Bible meeting with the family led by Lorimer, it hadn’t come close to stirring her like the service in the woods. But Constance had no doubt these devotional times contributed to the sincere faith she had discovered in this home.
“I suppose I should join the girls.” Constance sat her cup on the satin tablecloth.
“Wait a moment, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont turned to her husband. “We have something to discuss with you, don’t we, dear?”
“Go ahead, Mrs. Beaumont. We are all aware that you know your own mind.” Mr. Beaumont chuckled good-naturedly.
“Yes, then. I should like to retain your services until August. You did a fine job with our young ladies, and I look forward to watching their continued progress.”
In all that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours, Constance had forgotten her stay here remained uncertain. Her employment had not even crossed her mind. She found a smile for the Beaumonts as she knew they expected. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. I’m so relieved to hear it. We shall begin their ballet training at once. Wait until thou see the difference it makes.”
“I have no doubt.” Mr. Beaumont winked at her in a fatherly sort of manner, which generated a knot of melancholy in her chest.
“Good, then. That’s settled.” Mrs. Beaumont made as if to rise.
But they had not at all concluded this conversation. They never discussed her salary in these two weeks. “I’m sorry, madam. May I keep thee for another moment? I so appreciate the way thou has treated me as family, but since we are all together, might we discuss the business arrangements for my stay? I hate to mention it, but I need appropriate attire if we are to continue holding dances. I brought little with me.”
“Of course, dear. We’ll have Mr. Percy see to it. I believe I offered Monsieur Molyneux a rather ridiculous sum. I would say you deserve no less. Do you agree, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Oh, and that reminds me.” Mrs. Beaumont gave Constance her full attention. “I hope you shall be starting the waltz soon. I’ve been all aflutter with anticipation.” Indeed her hand fluttered as she spoke.
“Aye, of course. Although, I’ve been thinking, how shall the guests learn the steps so they can participate? It isn’t something one might pick up at a glance.”
“Dear me, I hadn’t considered that. Maybe we’ll have only a demonstration—although, that’s not what I pictured. Do you have any suggestions, Miss Cavendish?”
Constance would not reveal her plan yet, for she wasn’t sure if Mrs. Beaumont would be pleased to let her part from them, even for an afternoon or two a week. “I shall think on it. I’m certain that, together, we can manage something.”
And before long Constance would be the premier dance instructor of Albemarle County.
* * *
Sitting in the sunny window seat of her room upon a chintz cushion, Constance turned the worn leather Bible over in her hands again and again, although she supposed such external examination did not qualify as “Bible study” per se. She flipped it open and landed on Lamentations. “My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones.” Gracious! She did not need that sort of verse this morning. Too many already considered her an old maid despite her lineless face. She recalled the words of Jesus were found in the New Testament. Turning through the pages, she stumbled upon the book of Matthew. No, a long genealogical list did not help.
She skipped forward several chapters, and at last she found something of value. “Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy…”
She scanned down the passage until another line caught her attention. If she engaged her imagination, she could almost fancy that it shimmered as Lorimer had said. “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.”
That seemed like much to digest already. Perhaps too much. How did Lorimer conduct his study? She read back over the words, unsure how she should perceive the particulars. But she did glean an overriding theme.
Christ stood on the side of the poor and the oppressed.
That seemed to be the essence. Somehow, she did not recall hearing such a message before, although these appeared to be the words of Jesus himself. Not until she was poor and reviled had she turned her thoughts to God, and only then to dodge further wrath at his hand.
Perhaps she’d missed the point entirely. Perhaps the point was that one could better perceive and accept God when one had need of him.
Considering again the portion about mercy, she pondered her relationship with Sissy. All these years, she had heaped guilt upon herself for disobeying her father. But what of mercy? Surely she had been merciful in doing so.
Constance recalled the day she had found Sissy in her room turning over a book of Blake poems in her hand. The thirteen-year-old girl had studied the cryptic symbols, not at all unlike how Constance had studied the front of the Bible just moments ago.
“Those sure are some mighty fine letters on there, Miss Ginger.” Sissy had brushed her fingers over the textured cover. “I recognize me that there ‘c’ like Cavendish.” She pointed to the word complete. “I suppose you know all of them letters and what they say.”
“Of course. Would you like me to read you one?” Constance took the book and opened it.
“Oh, you know I would.”
The girls snuggled together on Constance’s bed as she read. “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?”
She could have quoted those favorite lines from memory, but for Sissy’s sake she trailed each word with her pointer finger as she read. Although Papa had taught her that slaves did not possess the intelligence to handle such complex thought processes, she hoped Sissy might enjoy better understanding the basic mechanics of reading.
“So this one here says fire.” The girl pointed to the word in both places. “I done saw it twice and recollected. And look a’ this one. It’s got a ‘c’ like Cavendish. And this starts the word could, so that one must have a ‘ck’ sound. And I reckon that there letter on fire must sound like ‘ff’ causin’ it was at the beginning of fearful too, right?”
Constance stared at Sissy in wonder. She was not merely spouting rote memorization but rather seemed to comprehend the entire process of reading. Perhaps Papa was wrong, and slaves could be taught to read. Such thinking might change everything.
As Constance looked into the sharp brown eyes of her best friend, she knew she must try. They were no longer children playing at dolls in the forest, and other than boys and hairstyles they had little to discuss these days. But in that moment, she saw that Sissy’s mind was like a dry sponge, screaming to absorb knowledge. Constance must at least try to teach her.
Had that not been mercy she’d shown Sissy on that day so long ago? And in the following years as she instructed Sissy in literature, mathematics, and even history in their secret attic hideaway—the same attic where she would permit Sissy, always the same size as Constance, to try on her gowns and shoes?
Mercy or folly? Her father would say folly, for certain. They must keep the servants complacent, he would insist. Constance hadn’t believed him until it was too late. Without an education, without a taste of the finer things in life, Sissy would not have betrayed her. The slaves would not have rebelled.
Papa would not be dead.
It was all her
fault. She should never have disobeyed. Blessed are those who thirst for righteousness, the Scripture had said. Righteous children obeyed their parents. Even she knew the Ten Commandments. She longed for righteousness now, but had missed her opportunity.
Yet, how did righteousness fit with mercy? They seemed to run at odds with one another. In retrospect, her actions might not have been merciful at all, for who knew what horrors Sissy endured away from the loving care of the Cavendishes.
This Bible study habit was not for the faint of heart. It evoked such intense thoughts and more than a little confusion. But at least she had made an attempt. When Lorimer returned she would ply him with questions. Knowing him as she did already, Constance suspected he might say mercy prevails in such cases.
She whispered a quick prayer for guidance as she proceeded with her day, then laid the Bible on her bed stand. Lorimer would be so proud of her. Proud? She seemed to recall God did not encourage pride. Neither did the emotion fit those he might bless from the passage. She did so long for God’s blessing upon her life. Pleased. Yes, Lorimer would be pleased.
Changing into her dance slippers, she headed down to the ballroom for the morning’s instruction. Today, they would begin ballet.
* * *
“All right, ladies, now back to first position.”
Several days after her first attempt at Bible study, Constance observed the twins’ attempts with their ballet exercises. Both girls held the basic stance: toes out, heels together, hands in a circular shape to the front. They lacked, however, finesse. “Molly, marionette strings from your head, please. Dolly, soft elbows as if you hug a wash barrel.”
Molly giggled. “Miss Cavendish, I’m sure she’s never hugged a wash barrel.”
“Then I suggest you use your imaginations before I run and fetch one.”
The girls both laughed at her teasing threat.
“I’m growing stiff from standing still so long.” Dolly blew a curl from her eye. “Might we do some actual dancing today?”
They’d spent the past few days conquering the basic five positions of ballet and walking across the checkered marble floor with the grace of princesses.
