If I Fall (12 page)

“Of course, Miss Hamilton. I am sorry. It was not my place to get involved.”

I smile at her. “No need for apologies, Gertrude.”

She bows her head and continues to brush my hair. We fall back into silence. I puzzle over her message, her warning. What did she mean by the Laurence’s not being an accepting family? Mrs. Laurence is the most accepting person I have ever met. Adam, on the other hand, does not know the real me and will never learn the truth, so how can he accept what he will never know?

I dismiss her warning and allow myself to get lost in the relaxing rhythm of the brush running through my hair.

It is only later that I realize the truth in my mother’s favorite saying:

The maids know everything.

14
DANCING

Smiling brightly, Dela collapses into the chair beside me. She brushes a piece of blonde hair out of her face and pins it back into place atop her head. With a sigh, she leans back, thin fingers gripping her gloves. She pulls them back over her elbows. The fingertips are slightly soiled, and I wonder how long it will take Mrs. Laurence to scold Dela into putting on a fresh pair.

Reaching out my own gloved hand, I grab the stem of my champagne glass. I swirl it around before taking a tiny sip, bubbles going up my nose. I sneeze. Dela hands me her handkerchief and smiles.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the lacey white cloth.

She tilts her head to meet my eyes, her worried expression making me wary of the talk I am sure follows.

I gaze out over the dance floor, avoiding her cool glare. Couples swirl around one another in a Boston waltz. The floor is a rainbow of colors as girls in their vibrant dresses twirl and spin around their partners.

An orchestra sits atop a raised platform at the front of the ballroom. Thin bows pull against silver strings, their tips biting at the air with every corresponding movement of the musicians’ hands. They fall and rise together, in time with the velvet flow of the music as notes pour from the violas and violins, and a deeper voice sounds from the cellos and basses. I watch the bows’ movement, a beautiful waltz that is all their own.

“Elvira, why are you sitting here, sipping champagne you do not even like and telling men your dance card is full when we both know that is not true? Please, dance. If not for me than for yourself. You cannot sit here all night. People are already talking,” Dela whispers.

I cross my arms stubbornly, never taking my eyes off of the orchestra. “Let them talk.”

She frowns angrily. “It is not our image you are corrupting, El. We owe Mrs. Laurence our best behavior tonight. We owe everything to her. Please do not mess this up,” she pleads. “This is our only chance. The Laurence’s are our only chance.”

I sigh, raising my gaze to look in her icy blue eyes. She is a vision in pink. Her dress: light pink chiffon with jeweled butterflies adorning the sleeves. It is simplistic, yet elegant.

“Why can you not simply be like every other twelve-year-old?” I say, smiling. “You are too wise for your own good, Dela. I hope you know that.”

A grin stretches across her face. “And you, my sister, are too stubborn for your own good. Do promise you will dance with the next man who asks.”

I nod and take another sip of the disgusting champagne. I gaze back out over the dance floor and see Mrs. Laurence staring at us from across the room. She smiles, points to Dela, and curls back her index finger in a beckoning motion.

Dela catches my gaze and follows my line of sight. She sighs dramatically.

“I think Mrs. Laurence wishes to speak with you,” I say.

She grimaces. “No doubt to complain about my soiled gloves again. This is my third pair. She has made poor Gertrude run back to the room twice already.”

“Well, you had better go. She looks persistent.”

Dela stands, smoothing out her dress. “Do I look all right? Is my hair a mess?”

“You look beautiful. Now, go. Oh, and your handkerchief,” I say, holding the lacey square out.

She wrinkles her nose. “You keep it. I’m sure Gertrude can fetch me another when she goes back for my
fourth
pair of gloves.” Her dress glittering in the light of the crystal chandeliers, Dela turns her back to me and makes her way across the floor to Mrs. Laurence. “Do not forget, El. The first man that asks! No excuses!” she calls over her shoulder, earning a few snide looks from the couples around her. Ladies are not to raise their voices, but Dela is completely unaware.

Laughing, I return my attention to the orchestra as they begin a polka. I pick at a grape on my plate and bite through its succulent skin, juice exploding against my taste buds. It is sour, but serves its purpose of erasing the foul taste of the champagne.

I scan the crowd for the twentieth time, but still there is no sign of him. He was not back at the cabin when we departed for the ball, and although Mrs. Laurence assured us Adam would be meeting us at the dance, he is still absent.

For the hundredth time, I consider leaving the dance in search of him, but with Mrs. Laurence and Gertrude watching me like hawks, there is no chance of sneaking away.

“Miss Hamilton, there you are!” I turn my head to see Gertrude walking up behind me.
Speak of the devil,
I think and fake a smile as she comes to stand before me.

“Good evening, Gertrude. Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask pleasantly.

“Yes. The food is wonderful and the taste in music is exquisite. Mrs. Laurence and I have noticed that you have not been dancing. Are you not feeling well?”

I shake my head. “I feel fine. Why do you ask?”

The lines in her forehead and around her eyes become more prominent as she talks. “Well, some fine young men have asked for a spot on your dance card and you have not danced with one. We thought maybe you were ill.
Are
you ill?”

I take my time to respond, deciding whether I should lie and claim that I am indeed in poor health, or tell the truth. Remembering my promise to Dela, I decide a slanted version of the truth will suffice.

“I am not ill. I simply am not in the mood to dance,” I say slowly, leaving out the part about Adam. The part where I am too busy searching for him to dance. The part where I have no interest in dancing with anyone else, no matter how handsome, wealthy, or chivalrous he may be.

“Well, in that case, Mrs. Laurence would like to see your dance card.” She reaches out a hand, palm up, waiting.

The urge to ask why burns in my throat. I reach for the dance card where it hangs from my dress by a hook and ribbon. It is a small leather book with a list of songs the orchestra will be playing throughout the night. A pencil hangs from it, an open invitation for the men of the ball to write their names by the piece of music they wish to dance with me. All twenty-four songs are blank.

I unhook it from my dress and hand it to Gertrude, who smiles and walks away. Within twenty minutes, she returns, hands back the book, and leaves without a word. Unnerved by her mischievous smile, I open the book and groan. Once a blank dance card is now a long list of names, names of men whom I am now forced to accompany on the dance floor.

As if on cue, a gangly boy walks towards me. His hair is a rustic red and his nose too large for his face. His dark tailcoat contrasts his white bowtie. Intermingling with the copper tone of his hair, the winged collar of his shirt seems dreadfully stiff. I must tilt my head all the way back to see him as he is frighteningly tall. He peers at me with dark green eyes. As I stand and we introduce ourselves, I find myself wondering how he can possibly dance with legs so long and lanky.

“Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you?” he says. His tone is respectful and amicable, and I know that there is no way I can refuse him now.

I stretch a smile and reply, “With pleasure, sir.”

With a quick bow, he takes my arm and leads me out onto the dance floor where the other couples have already begun the polka. I place my hand on his shoulder and my other in his palm as he places his free hand against the small of my back.

“Do you know this dance well, Miss Hamilton?” he asks conversationally.

I smile. “Yes. Well enough,” I say, and wonder if he can tell I am lying through my teeth. My family was never like these families, the type of families that make frequent calls to their friends and play cricket and attend balls. This is my first ball, my first polka, my first couple dance, but there is no way I am letting him, or anyone else, know that.

I follow his lead as I put all of my weight onto my left foot and hop onto my right. Together we take three small steps and continue the pattern, moving across the floor with the other couples. I try not to watch my feet as we polka our way from one side of the room to the other. Dela sits in a nearby chair. She captures my eye and winks before I am spinning away from her, completely lost in the music and the steps.

“You have very light feet,” the boy, whose name I have already forgotten, remarks. I find his comment odd, but take the compliment with a smile.

As the song ends, we slow and pull apart to clap with the other dancers.

“It was an honor dancing with you, Miss Hamilton,” he says, flashing another crooked smile and bowing, his right hand outstretched. I take it and he graciously conducts me to my seat. I sit and smile at him without a word, allowing him to press his lips to my hand. A sigh escapes me as he walks away, but my rest is brief for another man ambles towards me.

The cycle continues for the next six songs as man after man joins me on the dance floor. I follow their leads, learning the patterns of the steps to each dance as I follow the music across the marble tiles.

When the sixth song ends I excuse myself, claiming I am in need of the powder room, and take my leave. Holding my dress up, I ascend the elegant staircase where I have seen many groups of giggling girls escape in search of the ladies’ sitting room.

I turn to my left, where a trio of girls just appeared, and walk down the hall. Carved doors separate the ladies’ and men’s rooms from all of the others. The sitting room has a mixture of stylish chairs and chaises. A maid that has been assigned to the room offers to help me with my hair, but I decline her proposal. After many more offers, she meanders off to fetch me the fresh pair of gloves I finally agree to. And at last, I am alone.

Looking in one of the many gold encrusted mirrors, I fix my hair, pinning curls back into the elegant twist Gertrude had designed atop my head. A black wisp hangs down to the side of my face and I leave it there, having run out of pins.

I relax into the closest chair, suddenly exhausted, both emotionally and physically. The men I have danced with tonight were indeed fine young men and every one of them showed they were interested.
Some more than others,
I think, remembering my third partner who kept testing my patience with his wandering hands during the mazurka. But did any of it matter?

Even if I were interested, it couldn’t happen. I am Marked. And though, for the time being, I have no powers, the Mark is still a part of me and who I am. Can I truly be with someone who does not really know me? No. This will be my life, dancing with men I can never be with, attending balls and falling for men who will never know the real me.

I want to throw my dance card against the wall. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to share my frustration with the world and the men who thought they had a chance with me. The joke is on them. You can never be with me, and you wouldn’t want to be with me if you knew what lies beneath my glove. I laugh maniacally, happy to have the room to myself as I become wild with disappointment.

Giggling through my tears, I wipe at my eyes and clean my face. I shake my head at my reflection, feeling sorry for the girl in the mirror who will never be loved.

“No use in feeling sorry for yourself,” I tell her. “It is what it is.”

It is what it is,
I think, remembering Adam’s words from the other night:
It all depends on the fate of the stars.

And that is life, isn’t it? Fate. Luck. Chance. A long series of
what-if’s
that lead from one moment to the next, time never pausing for you to catch your breath, to make sense of the cards that have been handed to you. And all you can do is play your cards and hope for the best, because in the end, it all comes back to those three basics.

Fate. Luck. Chance.

Wanting to escape before the maid returns, I take one more glance at the girl in the mirror and head back to the ball, never anticipating the hand of cards that would be dealt next.