Love in Three-Quarter Time

by Dina Sleiman

  He had once told Constance that following God’s instructions created a sense of lightness and joy, even when difficult. But he didn’t feel it at this moment.

  “Good-bye, Lorimer.” Constance gave his hand a squeeze and turned to walk toward the house. A stabbing sensation struck his chest. He watched her sturdy blue traveling skirts swish away from him as she passed over the lawn, across the drive, up the stairs, and through the huge double doors.

  CHAPTER 28

  “I’m headin’ over to the western field, Mr. Robbie. You be needin’ anything?”

  Corn in time for harvest would be nice.

  Robbie surveyed the struggling green shoots lining the field, far from the knee high height they needed to be any day now. “I’m fine, Jimbo. You go along.”

  Jimbo saluted him. “Yes, sir. Don’t you worry none. We’ll have them yellow ears a sproutin’ in no time. We believe in you, Mr. Robbie. We sure enough do. Ain’t that right, Marcus?” He nudged one of the field workers.

  “Sure enough,” Marcus nodded.

  Robbie wished he shared their confidence. Even if the corn did sprout in time, how would they ever harvest all these acres? Another family of eight had left last week to join relatives in Ohio. Jimbo didn’t have twenty mouths depending on him. Forty bright eyes looking to him in trust that everything would be all right.

  And only half of those people worked the fields. The rest were children and young mothers—though perhaps they could at least help with the harvest. He did not wish to misuse them, but he supposed farm wives and children pitched in on such occasions.

  Robbie leaned against his hoe and wiped his brow. It helped little with the rivers of sweat pouring from him in this noonday heat. A lone rider thundered toward him over the hill connecting his plantation to the Beaumont place at a pace that did not bode well.

  Lorimer.

  What was he doing here? He’d already whisked off the only woman Robbie ever loved. What more could he want?

  At the last second, the man pulled the horse to a halt, slid down, and stalked toward Robbie. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Wrong with me? You’re the one who just came flying across my land as if you had the British at your heels.”

  Lorimer slapped his hat against his buckskin trousers. “The sweetest, most beautiful woman in Virginia throws herself at you, and all you can say is, ‘I can’t forgive you’ and ‘I don’t trust you.’” Lorimer closed his free hand into a fist and leaned aggressively toward Robbie.

  Robbie rubbed his eyes. Had he been in the heat too long? Because this made no sense. But Lorimer still stood there seething. Robbie took a deep breath and looked over the field of sprouting corn. “That’s not exactly what I said, and certainly not what I meant.”

  “If you love her, do something about it. Before I take matters into my own hands.” Lorimer stepped closer, his unmitigated stare fixed on Robbie.

  Robbie kicked the dirt at his toes. “Take her. She’s yours.” He turned his head up and frowned. “But do right by her. Find a real job and care for that woman properly.” He almost offered an “or else,” but a wave of weariness washed over him, driving the fight right out of him. If Robbie couldn’t have Constance, someone should make her happy, although it would all but kill him to see it.

  “You’re talking foolishness, Robbie. Go after her. As much as I hate to admit it, I sense she’s not for me. I believe she’s meant for you.”

  Robbie recognized that tone of voice, the key words. Lorimer’s prophet-speak. But somehow the mighty Lorimer had it wrong this time. “It’s too late for us, Lorimer.”

  “I took her to Sissy.”

  “You what!” Robbie threw down the hoe and grabbed Lorimer’s shoulders. “You idiot. Do you want the lot of them hanged?”

  Lorimer jerked away from Robbie. “You should have seen them. Sobbing and clinging to each other like little girls. Constance was a new person. She plans to free them. All of them. You can trust her. She has a good heart full of forgiveness.”

  Dare he? Robbie shook his head. He stretched his fingers from the fists he had formed without thinking. “I don’t know.”

  Lorimer hopped back on his horse. “Robert James Montgomery, by the time I come back next month, you’d better be courting that girl, or there’s no accounting for what I might do.”

  How he wished it might be possible. But Lorimer did not know the entire story. Robbie offered a wry grin and swiped an errant tear from his eye. He wouldn’t cry. His father taught him real men didn’t cry. Then again, according to his father, real men didn’t free their slaves either. “I’ll think on it, Lorimer.”

  Lorimer leaned forward, aggression making way for true concern. “I’ll be praying for you. For both of you.”

  “You do that.” Robbie tapped his forehead in farewell.

  Lorimer didn’t understand. And Robbie had no desire to explain. His mind wandered back to that awful night. The night in Prince George County five years ago that changed everything. The night that had started with dancing and kissing and promises of forever—and ended in tragedy.

  No one was meant to die.

  Robbie had planned it perfectly. Or so he thought. Never before had he been asked to help an entire plantation of slaves escape, but they were on the verge of revolt, and he needed to divert disaster. This mission would require special preparation. He needed to become acquainted with the Cavendish family. Learn their habits and schedules. Know the land inside and out.

  What better way to accomplish that than to court their pretty daughter?

  But things had gone awry the moment he’d fallen in love. His mind became a muddle. He tried too hard. He couldn’t execute the plan properly.

  His job had been to keep Mr. Cavendish and the overseer out gambling all night at a neighboring plantation, as they often did after a big ball. Others from the movement would assist in the actual escape. When the overseer pled a headache and decided to leave their game hours early, Robbie tried everything to make him stay. When the man rode off into the night, all Robbie could do was mumble prayers under his breath as he shuffled through his cards and hoped against hope that the slaves would be gone before the overseer returned to Cavendish Hall. He couldn’t risk his beloved Gingersnap discovering his involvement.

  Nor could he turn his back upon his beloved cause. Robbie had witnessed the horrid scars covering the backs of the Cavendish slaves, observed the haunted eyes of the women who’d been misused. They had to get away before it was too late. Before they took matters into their own hands.

  He simply hadn’t meant for anyone to die.

  Robbie would never forgive himself for not riding back with Mr. Cavendish. The man had been drunk, exhausted, and out of money from a night of heavy gambling. The situation turned from bad to worse when he arrived home to a pool of blood on the porch. His slaves were gone, and his wife and daughters were nowhere to be found. The man must have assumed the worst and keeled over of some sort of apoplexy.

  Leaving his death at Robbie’s feet.

  Maybe if Robbie had been there, he could have calmed him or fetched a doctor. The man was the father of the girl he hoped to marry, after all—no matter his character.

  The women returned from the river the next morning cold, wet, and alone, only to discover Mr. Cavendish dead on the porch. The overseer was found tied in an outbuilding later that day with a huge gash on his head, explaining the blood on the porch.

  And Robbie hadn’t been man enough to be there. He might as well have shot her father himself and been done with it.

  How could he ever explain that to Gin…to Constance? Even if he could, he could never marry a woman who had once wished a cruel and lingering death upon every slave and abolitionist in the South, a woman who had called him a coward and a fool when he turned her down for her own good. A woman who said he wasn’t a real man and swore he would never amount to anything in life.

  They were words that still hurt late at night, like spikes being pounded in his
head.

  He surveyed the struggling corn field. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe he’d never amount to anything.

  But Lorimer claimed Constance had changed. That she’d offered freedom to her slaves. Robbie had a hard time picturing it. Even so, if she knew the truth, she would never forgive him. Too much had passed between them. And no matter how he might long for her, no matter how much she’d changed, they could never be together.

  * * *

  Constance surveyed the swirling ballroom with a sharp eye, watching for any missteps or rhythm issues, but her pupils had come along nicely in only three lessons. They performed the first portion of the waltz like experts and managed passably with the second, flowing in gentle circular patterns with the rocking down, up, up motion.

  The girls looked like fluttering dogwood blossoms in their white muslin dresses; the young gentlemen offered stunning contrast in their dark frock coats.

  Constance smiled. She’d done well. With weeks of lessons left until the ball, she would finish the waltz and polish some of their other dances in addition. The glowing faces of the parents lining the walls attested to their pleasure.

  She clapped and nodded to the accompanist as the song came to a close. “Excellent work today, students.”

  “Miss Cavendish.” Terrence Sugarbaker’s younger brother, Wyatt, stepped forward with Dolly draped over his elbow. “I’ve been thinking. If we’re to introduce the waltz to America, I say we do it with our own Yankee Doodle flair.”

  Constance couldn’t resist his saucy grin. “Explain, Mr. Sugarbaker.”

  “We’ve already discussed several variations. So what if we create our own version. Say, add in a little of this.” He twirled his partner in quick repetitive spins under his arm as he turned his own rotation.

  “I have one,” shouted a Randolph boy, taking his sister Virginia by the elbow, barn-dance style. She swished her skirt along agreeably as he stomped out the beat.

  Giggles and chuckles met their performance.

  “Or how about this,” added the middle Patterson boy. He took Molly by both hands, and they flew together in a wild circle, pulling back against one another’s weight. Molly giggled as they came to a stop, and she fell against the handsome young man to keep from toppling to the floor. But in typical Beaumont twin fashion, she let go too early, wobbled as dizziness won out, and landed on her well-padded derrière.

  Constance raised an eyebrow as the students laughed out right.

  Molly, winded by now, made herself comfortable on the floor.

  “Oh, oh!” The irrepressible Wyatt waved his hand overhead, still ripe with ideas. “Or this.” He swept Dolly into his arms and dipped her near to the floor as she squealed in surprise. He kissed her cheek in that precarious position and lost his balance, tipping over top of her. They joined Molly on the marble tile. Blushing from his white cravat to his corn silk hair, Wyatt rolled off Molly with all due haste.

  Constance managed to don her best school matron voice despite her ample amusement. “Students, settle yourselves. While I do see the merit of adding our own flair to the choreography, our goal is to prove the waltz a respectable dance. I shall think on it until we meet again. Class dismissed.”

  As the students mingled and flirted, Mrs. Randolph approached Constance. “You certainly have a way with youngsters, Miss Cavendish. I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished in three short lessons. Have you given any thought to what you shall do after the ball?”

  Constance forced herself to remain still, even as excitement overtook her.

  “I would love to have you stay with us at Monticello for a season,” Mrs. Randolph continued without waiting for an answer to her question. “Mrs. Beaumont goes on and on about the ballet training you’ve given the twins, and I can see the results myself.” Mrs. Randolph smiled. “Despite the tumbles to the floor, for which I think the gentlemen were to blame and not your excellent tutelage. I’d be thrilled to have my young ladies enjoy the same advantages of grace and posture.”

  “Why, I would be honored—although my family and I might be taking rooms in Charlottesville when we’re finished at the Beaumonts’. Have you met my sister?” Constance waved quiet Felicity over to them. She had come to join the class with the twins but now blended with the wall covering. “Mrs. Randolph, allow me to introduce my sister, Felicity Cavendish. She is one of the finest artists you shall ever meet. Both she and my mother are exquisite seamstresses as well.”

  “I’d heard about the sewing, but not the art. Father does so love art. I would be very interested in art lessons for the children as well. Have you a favorite painter, Miss Felicity?”

  “I’m a fan of the new Romantics.” Felicity offered a quick grin before turning her gaze to her silk dancing slippers.

  “And our sister back at the Beaumont plantation is a skilled musician, although I know your children already play quite well,” said Constance.

  Mrs. Randolph pressed her hands together. “How exciting for our community. Have you ever given thought to a school for young ladies?”

  “In fact, we have.” Constance smiled.

  “Well, let’s keep in communication about that. It sounds like an excellent idea. I would be happy to support such an endeavor.”

  Their first patron! Constance kept herself from tapping out a few happy steps and twirling in a circle. That could wait until she arrived home. More parents pressed toward her on their way out, requesting she add them to her schedule of private lessons in the fall.

  She gave Felicity’s arm a little squeeze.

  “You were right, Constance. About everything. I’m so happy here. I had forgotten how it felt to have friends.”

  “And young men to court.” Constance wiggled her brows.

  Her shy little sister turned a pleasing shade of pink. She’d barely spoken to her partner all afternoon. “Soon enough. But what about you, Constance? Wyatt’s older brother was eyeing you at dinner last week. And Mr. Lorimer seemed quite smitten as well.”

  Constance sighed. Perhaps someday she’d tell Felicity about Robbie, but not now, and most assuredly not here with so many potential listeners. “Soon enough, as you say. For now, let’s focus on establishing ourselves as teachers.”

  “You know I’d love to teach, but if you were to marry a rich plantation owner, you needn’t bother. You’d be busy rearing children and running a home.” Felicity looked wistfully out the window.

  “All the more reason to get Mother and you girls established before I run off, don’t you think?” Felicity merely shrugged and focused on the garden outdoors. No doubt she’d spotted some pretty scene she’d capture later on paper.

  Constance left her sister to her wandering thoughts and crossed to the fortepiano to gather the sheet music. Felicity had a point indeed. If they would all marry well, there’d be little need of a school. But marriage might not be in the cards for Constance—ever. The man of her dreams had discarded her for the second time in five years. And the only other man who’d caught her fancy in all that time seemed determined to give her back—to the very person who’d rejected her so soundly.

  Better to focus on her duties. Focus on her duties each day.

  And cry herself to sleep night after night.

  She no longer felt like dancing.

  CHAPTER 29

  The following Sunday Constance sat in the Charlottesville courthouse for the morning service. It was an odd place to hold church, for certain. Hopefully, they would build an actual sanctuary before long.

  Constance focused her mind upon the words of the Bible reading. Lovely words. Words of truth, many of which she’d come across in her own study. But somehow the monotone voice of the priest ruined them. She longed for her clergyman in Richmond, who’d brought a spark of life to the occasional services they attended.

  The congregation stood to read from Psalm 150 in tandem with the priest.

  “Praise ye the Lord. Praise God in his sanctuary. Praise him in the firmament of his power,” the priest
droned.

  “Praise him for his mighty acts: praise him according to his excellent greatness,” the congregants answered. Constance determined to mean the words with all her heart, and they began to resonate inside of her.

  “Praise him with the sound of the trumpet: praise him with the psaltery and harp.” The glum priest clearly did not understand the intent of the passage.

  “Praise him with the timbrel and dance.” Constance’s mind caught on that phrase, turning it over again and again. She missed the next few statements but roused herself in time for the concluding verse.

  “Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord.” Constance shouted the final words with true emotion like the slaves from the field, drawing a few stares in the process.

  Let them look. Constance would praise her God no matter what.

  They resumed their seats, and the man shifted into his sermon, still in the same flat tone. At least she could discuss the topic with Martha later, the story of Jacob’s dream and angels descending from heaven. She wondered if God still spoke through dreams, if angels and devils still functioned in the world today. Such supernatural occurrences filled the pages of the Bible.

  This very week she’d pondered the story of the loaves and the fishes. Picturing herself in the crowd. Imagining the awe. Experiencing overwhelming gratitude. Might God still provide for his children in such miraculous ways? Heal the sick? Make the blind to see and the lame to walk?

  Constance knew what Patience would say and suspected Lorimer would assert the opposing view. Soon Lorimer would return to hold his meetings with the slaves. She planned to follow him around like a hound dog to each and every event, soaking in every possible word, singing each song with all her heart.