Love in Three-Quarter Time
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Authors: Dina Sleiman
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Christian, #FIC000000
Love in Three-Quarter Time
Dina Sleiman
ZONDERVAN
Love in Three-Quarter Time
Copyright © 2012 by Dina Sleiman
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Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
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Cover design:
Angela Grit
Cover photography:
© iStockphoto
To all the ladies who dance
Fraught with cargoâand her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand,
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand pas-seul excited some remark;
Not love-lord Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck,
Display'd so much of leg, or more of
neck,
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!
“T
HE
W
ALTZ
,” L
ORD
B
YRON
, 1813
CONTENTS
Prince George County, Virginia, 1812
“Gingersnap” Cavendish waltzed her way through the scandalous steps, tilting her head back to giggle prettily as she'd practiced in the mirror. If all went according to plan, her copper curls would bounce and catch the firelight just right.
“It doesn't look so scandalous to me.” Robert Montgomeryâthe man of her dreamsâleaned against the rich mahogany bookshelves in Papa's library as music drifted in from the enormous marble foyer beyond.
“That's because you haven't joined me yet.” Humming along to the tune, she continued to glide and twirl, brushing her stocking-clad feet against the plush carpet. She lifted the silken, rosy skirt of her high-waisted gown for him to better watch the pattern of her steps. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Down, up, up. Are you grasping it? I've never attempted the man's part, but you are an expert dancer. I'm certain you'll manage.”
“All right. I shall give it a try if you insist. We can't hide here much longer. How did you persuade me of this?”
“Excellent!” She clapped her hands and rocked on her toes to set her curls bouncing once again. “Come close.” As if he needed such an instruction.
“Gladly, my princess.”
Pleasure bloomed warm in her chest. She loved it when he called her princess; she certainly planned to reign over Robbie's kingdom at the Montgomery family plantation soon enough.
He stood before her, toe to toe, and she reveled in his nearness, in his twinkling blue eyes and the glossy black hair waving over his forehead. Had ever such a beautiful man walked the earth? She took a deep whiff of his spicy scent and raised her arms to him.
Robbie raked his fingers through his hair. “You're a heap of trouble. You know that, don't you?” She wrinkled her nose. Of course she did. She'd heard as much nearly every day of her sixteen years.
“Now put your right hand here.” She took his sculpted fingers and placed his palm on the back of her rib cage. The skin beneath her gown tingled at his touch. Draping one arm on his shoulder, she took his free hand in her own. She'd abandoned her gloves hours ago, and sparks ignited between their bare fingers.
“That's my little hoyden. I think I could grow accustomed to this.” His eyes twinkled again as he teased about her reckless ways.
“We must strive to maintain a twelve-inch distance between our torsos.” She ignored his pretended insult and took a step back, although he seemed to draw her like a magnet.
“Twelve you say, Gingersnap?” He tugged her near, using her parents' pet name for her, as did most of their friends.
“Well, approximately twelve. It's not as if I've brought a ruler.”
“Nor I.” He pressed in tighter, leaning down to nuzzle her neck.
“Now stop that.” She smacked his shoulder. “We cannot dance that way.”
“We could try.” His masculine chuckle and the twitch of his lips caused her own lips to ache for his as she grew limp in his arms.
She had not felt his mouth against hers since that first ball months ago when she had convinced him that every young lady deserved one kiss upon her coming out. “I'm serious.” She attempted to right their position.
He stood up straight and snapped his heels together. “Yes. Serious.”
Of course, one kiss that night had turned to five, and he had forbidden them to succumb to their desire for more kisses since. He declared them far too combustible, much like her fiery personality. She'd managed to sneak a few kisses from her other beaux, but they were not at all the same.
She led him through the waltz stepsâtwo times, then three. The dance had grown popular in France and Italy, but it was still forbidden in the respectable ballrooms of England and the colonies. They rocked in and out toward one another, gazes locked. Then they performed the swirling series of underarm passes. Before long he caught on and took over the lead.
“Is this correct?” He looked down into her eyes. Her stomach performed its own little flip.
“It's perfect. Now direct me around the room. Use your fingers against the small of my back to guide me, light tugs and pushes on my hand.”
And he did it perfectly, gliding her across the floor like magic. “You've done this before.” She turned down her bottom lip in a pout.
“If so, I'm never telling.”
“You can spin as we go.”
He reeled her in closer to him and threw in a twirl. The force of the rotation left her dizzy. Before long they both giggled as he spun her again and again. She tossed back her head, not in artifice, but in delight. A giddy buoyancy overtook her, as if she were drunk on love.
Of all the secretive times her French dance instructor, Mademoiselle Cartier, had led her through this dance, it had never felt like thisâlike floating on a cloud in a warm, fuzzy haze. This held no resemblance to the stiffly separated dance to which she had grown accustomed. No, this was nothing short of divine. She abandoned herself to Robbie's lead, responding to his subtle shifts and sways.
Heaven. Bliss. Oh to lose herself in this moment forever.
Switching the hold, Robbie pressed their bodies close together while their arms wrapped about one another's waists and their right hands joined overhead. Their faces mere inches apart, she reveled in his masculine scent, in the intensity of his deep blue gaze.
After a few passes about the room, he drew her against him in the window niche. Already breathing hard, the air left her entirely after one look into his eyes. She nestled her body closer to his in the moonlight, being his little hoyden after all. But who would dare speak ill of herâthe pet daughter of the richest plantation owner in Virginia, his darling Gingersnap Cavendish, the belle of every ball?
Furthermore, she had every intention of marrying this man. She trailed her fingers along his chest and tipped her face up to him. No one else would do. He had flooded her thoughts every moment since they met two months ago. There might be richer men, smarter men. Perhaps even handsomer, she consented. But no one left her heart racing and her head in a tizzy like Mr. Robert Montgomery.
He sighed and ran his thumb down her cheek and over her lips, which parted, trembling beneath his touch. If she could, she would capture this sensation in a bottle and hold tight to it for the rest of her life.
His lips met hers, gentle, tentative at first. Sweet as candy. One kiss. Two. Then he crushed her to him as they both longed for more. She could drown herself in this man and never surface for air. Nothing mattered. Only her. Only him.
Suddenly he thrust her away, his hands firm on her forearms. “We must stop.”
“Why?” The word escaped as a sad, lonely rasp.
“Oh my princess, you are full of passion. Someday, Gingersnap, I promise, I shall marry you. We'll enjoy all the kisses we want and much, much more. But for tonight we must return before we're missed. As you've chosen to evade our chaperones, someone must be the responsible party. It's my job to care for your reputation. And I don't want to end up on the receiving end of your father's infamous temper.”
She wanted to argue, to hurl herself against him again. Melt into the heat of his embrace and never emerge. She could think of far worse fates than a ruined reputation and a forced wedding to Robert Montgomery of Albemarle County.
His face took on a commanding look, surely the expression he used to manage his plantation at only twenty-one years of age. “Move.”
She rather liked it.
“I'm serious.” He turned her by the shoulders and steered her toward her shoes and then to the door. But she smiled through her dreamy haze as his words echoed in her head again and again.
Someday I will marry you.
She would cling to that promise.
* * *
Hours later, her maid, Sissy, woke her in the middle of the night. Shaking her by the shoulder, Sissy whispered, “Miss Ginger, Miss Ginger. Get yourself up out of bed. It's an emergency, ma'am. You got to listen to me.”
She blinked awake and stared into Sissy's dark features. In all these long years, Sissy had never woken her so. She sat up straight. “What is it, Sissy? Tell me what's wrong.”
“I can't. I wish I could, but I can't. Oh!” Sissy paused, searching the room as if for an answer she could not find. “Do you trust me?”
Looking into Sissy's earnest brown eyes glowing in the candlelight, eyes Gingersnap had depended on most of her life as sources of truth and love, she said, “You know I do.”
“Then run away. Run away fast. Get your mama, grammy, and sisters, and run far away. To the shack down by the river. And don't come out, no matter what happens. Do you hear me? Don't come out 'til mornin'.” The fear on Sissy's face begged her not to question the reason.
A matching knot of fright formed in the pit of Gingersnap's belly and squeezed her chest. The smell of smoke tinged the air. “I hear you. Please, Sissy. Come with me.” She gripped Sissy's hands in hers.
“I'll help you wake them and join you just as soon as I can. Hurry! We ain't got no time to waste.”
And in that moment, Gingersnap somehow knew. Her gilded dream was about to dissolve into a nightmare.
Richmond, Virginia, 1817
“
Zeez
crazy woman, she will drive me insane. Come to Charlottesville. Teach in Charlottesville. Who does she think she
eez
? The fifthâcount them, one, two, three, four, fiveâthe fifth letter she has sent demanding my presence!”
Constance resisted the urge to hide under the windowsill of Monsieur Molyneux's brick townhouse to spy upon his conversation. The topic tempted her. That, however, would be the choice of one Gingersnap Cavendish, spoiled, selfish belle of the ball. No, that girl had died five years ago along with her papa. She was now Constance Cavendishâsolid, respectable, working womanâand she determined to live up to her name.
She walked to the entrance of Molyneux's home and rapped on the door as he continued his tirade. Although she had attempted for several years to set up her own business as a dance instructor, Molyneux reigned supreme in Richmond. She'd been able to secure a few cotillion classes for the children of shopkeepers, bankers, and such, but she remained unable to break into high society. They must have Monsieur Molyneux, the French dance master, and no one else. Only Molyneux would do. Molyneux. Molyneux. She pressed her hand to her temple.
Oh how she'd tired of that name.
Now here she stood knocking at his door even louder than before to overcome the sound of his petulant tantrum, but she had a family to support. A grandmother who needed medicine, sisters who needed trousseaus, and a mother who needed to cease stooping over needlework all the day long.
Finally she called, “Monsieur Molyneux? Are you in?” Although the entire block knew well that he was.
He stomped to the door and threw it open with a flourish. “Yes! What
eez
it? Not
you
again.”
She held back a grin. Something about his exaggerated accent led her to suspect he was actually a farmer from the backwoods of Pennsylvania. “Please, Monsieur. Allow me to come in for a moment. I dearly need to speak with you.” She looked about to see at whom he had been yelling, but evidently he required no audience for his rant.
He opened the door to allow her past. “
Entrée vous
, if you wish. Although I've told you repeatedly, I do not need an assistant. My sister, Coco, she
eez
all the assistant I require, no?” His hands fluttered about his head as he spoke.
She clasped her own hands before her. “But if you would only let me demonstrate my skill. You must be overworked. All of Richmond insists on you and only you.”
“Which proves you try to steal my business. No, no, no.” He wagged his finger and wiggled his slight hips in rhythm. The man had a flair for the theatrical. Little wonder the society matrons found him so fashionable. “They want a dance master.
Oui!
A man. Not a slip of a girl, belle of the ball or no.”
“But surely there's nothing improper about a female teaching the arts.”
“You will not be taking my business, Miss Cavendish. All of Richmond wants Molyneux,
eez
true.” He kicked the receiving table. An envelope fell to the floor, and he bent to retrieve it. “But Charlottesville, no. I simply cannot be in two places at once.
Zeezâ¦
” He held up the letter and shook it. “
Zeez
Beaumont woman of White Willow Hall, she
eez
crazy if she thinks I will abandon my students. No matter the sum she offers.”
Thankful he had brought it up, Constance cast her gaze downward. “Well, it's merely a thought, of course, but if you had a capable assistant, it might free you to travel.”
“You! You!” He smacked his forehead. “You are more the lunatic than
zeez
woman. You think I will let you steal my clients here in civilization while you send me traipsing to the frontier. Maybe you'll get lucky, and I'll be scalped while I'm gone. No!” He punctuated his favorite word with a slap to the wall this time. “I shall not be leaving my business to the likes of you, Miss Cavendish.”
She had planned on begging, mentioning her sick grandmother, but a new idea formed in her mind. “Of course. I didn't mean to implyâ¦I apologize. Whatever was I thinking? White Willow Hall, you say? In Charlottesville?”
“Past Charlottesville!”
“The woman must be insane. And you said she offered you how much?”
“I did not say. But because you ask⦔ He leaned closer to Constance and whispered the exorbitant sum.
She gasped. Monsieur was not the only one in the room capable of drama. “Even so, the indignity of it.”
“Do not be misunderstanding. I feel for
zeez
poor woman. I do.” He clutched his heart. “Twin daughters to come out
zeez
year, and no Monsieur Molyneux to guide them through the treacherous art of dance.
Désastreux.
Dance alone is the true measure of refinement. I will write and tell them to come to Richmond like the rest of civilized society at once.
Zeez eez
what I shall do.”
“That's very kind of you. I will trouble you no longer, sir. But if a position becomes available, please do keep me in mind. I am indeed a fine dancer, and I trained under an expert French instructor myself.”
“I know of your reputation, Miss Cavendish.
All
of your reputation.”
Her face went hot, and she pressed a hand against her cheek. “So sorry to trouble you, then.” She turned, shoved through the door, and walked away.
Rushing down the street to remove herself from him with all due haste, Constance couldn't help but wonder to which reputation he referredâher father's shame or her own outlandish behavior. For all of it was true. Had Molyneux himself been swindled by her father? Not likely, but perhaps a client or two of his had been. At least he couldn't know the worst.
No one knew. Not even Mama. Not even her sisters.
Constance feared she might never outrun the stigma of that fateful day. Richmond had not been far enough to escape it. They should have gone north, or south. But Mama could never leave her beloved Virginia behind. She felt safest here near Papa's sister, Serena, although the woman had done little enough for them.
Somehow, someway, Constance must set things right.
* * *
Resisting the urge to slam the bowl of steaming potatoes onto the dinner table, Constance passed them to Mr. Franklin with a tight smile instead. He gazed wistfully at her through his spectacles and came near to spooning his second helping onto the blue linen tablecloth instead of Mother's best, flowered china. The set was one of the few possessions they'd managed to keep.
Mother! How dare the woman? She knew Constance had no interest in Mr. Franklin, or in any male for that matter. Knew she had sworn off men when the young bucks of Prince George County spurned her after Father's downfall. That she had determined to start a business and help her family on her own.
But, of course, that was not the entire story.
“I must thank you all again for inviting me to supper.” Mr. Franklin, the schoolmaster from Pennsylvania, crooned at Constance from an alarming proximity.
All?
She nearly spoke the word aloud.
“I simply can't get enough of your fine company. The lovely Misses Cavendishes.” He laughed at his own banal wordplay as he raised his spoon with his left hand, crushing his elbow against Constance's. She missed the expansive accommodations of Cavendish Hall, although the appeal of that doomed lifestyle had faded long ago.
The ladies tittered along with Mr. Franklin, except for Constance, who was fed up with his advances and left-handed bumbling and was still seething over Molyneux's cold rejection that afternoon. She steadied herself with a deep breath, remembering to be thankful they had dinner while so many starved in Europe.
Constance glanced out of the corner of her eye in an attempt to decipher what on earth Mother might be thinking. Mr. Franklin was soâ¦medium. Medium height, medium brown hair, and nondescript features. He had less than a medium income, no doubt. How could Constance even consider him after being all but betrothed to RobâShe cut the thought short.
The old Gingersnap rose up within her and shot Mother a glare. But as she spotted the weary woman, old beyond her years, Constance regretted it, going so far as to mouth the word
sorry.
Mother raised a graying brow. “Is something the matter, Gingersnap?”
She offered a wry smile. Mother always knew when that side of Constance reared its ugly head. “Nothing at all, Motherâexcept that nickname. As you are well aware, it no longer suits.”
“Oh, give a mama what small pleasures she can find in life. More dinner rolls, Mr. Franklin?”
Patience passed him the basket. “I maintain my submission of Kettle Head as a fitting replacement.”
Felicity and Grammy shared a laugh over that. “Kettle Head,” Felicity squeaked in her mouse-like voice. At fifteen, Constance had been bold, brash, and carefree. She hated to see the harder toll life had taken on her youngest sister. At least Patience, at nineteen, retained her former spirit.
“Precisely. Doesn't her hair bring to mind a bright copper kettle, Mr. Franklin?” Patience took a bite of her potatoes without cracking a smile.
“Kettle Head?” Mr. Franklin jerked toward Patience. Had he been wearing a sword, no doubt he would have brandished it in defense of Constance's honor.
“Patience takes great pleasure in making me the object of her humor.” Constance pushed the succulent beef and sweet carrots about her plate, having little appetite that evening. The peppery scent drew her not at all.
“You must forgive their sisterly teasing, Mr. Franklin. It's a long tale.” Mother shook her head with a grin.
“Please, do tell it.” Mr. Franklin set down his fork. “I so love your family stories.”
Of course. Anything he might use as ammunition to capture Constance.
Le sigh
, she thought, wanting nothing more than to let the gingersnaps fly and pitch a Molyneux-worthy fit.
Mother patted a dab of gravy from her lip with a linen napkin and began, “You see, Mr. Cavendish thought Constance the perfect name for a daughter born in a new nation near the coming turn of a new century.”
Mr. Franklin did not so much as blink at the mention of her father. If one thing might be said in Franklin's favor, it was that he never held Papa's sins against them. Of course, he hadn't met the Cavendishes until long after the scandal.
Mother continued. “But deep down I knew this girl would never be a Constance. Mothers have instincts about such things, you know.”
“To be sure,” the genial Mr. Franklin agreed.
“And when I saw her beautiful copper hair, I regretted not naming her Scarlett or Garnetâor Ruby, perhaps.”
Patience broke in. “But Kettle Head didn't grow a sprig of hair until she was a year old.” She flashed her dimple at Constance. “By then it was too late.”
“But by which time,” Mother picked up the story, “we had grown well aware of the fiery temper that matched her hair. When I heard that ginger biscuits had been dubbed gingersnaps by some witty baker, I knew I must claim the title for her at once. Mr. Cavendish laughed and laughed. The name caught hold, and by her coming out, the entire county knew her as such.”
“While all three of the Cavendish daughters do have the loveliest red hair, I must say I've never found Miss Constance to be anything but levelheaded and soft-spoken.” Mr. Franklin made cow eyes at her from mere inches to her right.
Constance turned her head and attempted to blink away the disturbing impression. She would save every penny to buy a larger table if she thought for one moment they could navigate around it in this tiny room. “As I said, the name no longer suits, although even I must confess that once upon a time it was quite true to my nature.”
“And as I said, Kettle Head is much more fitting to her copper curls. If anyone's hair is ginger, it's mine.” Patience patted her chignon.
“Kettle Head.” Felicity echoed the name again and giggled.
Seeing the girl laugh so lifted Constance's spirits. Most days she was too quiet by half.
“Kettle Head it is, then.” Constance reached across the table to pat Felicity's hand. “I have no objection.”
“If you all insist, I won't be the one to naysay the decision.” Mr. Franklin's comment suggested he thought himself a member of the family with a right to vote on such issues.
Constance held in a snort. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
The way he leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and groaned seemed to solidify his presumed familial standing. “What a wonderful meal. Miss Cavendish, you are a splendid cook.”
Constance coughed into her napkin before he could catch her with his bovine eyes again. If Mother hadn't sprung him on her at the last minute, she would have been sure to overpepper the roast to scare him off.
But when she looked at her poor, tired mother, all resentment melted away. If Constance were honest with herself, she knew what Mama saw in Mr. Franklin: A future son-in-law, a lonely bachelor from far away who longed for a family, and a man who accepted their lowly status with grace. Someone who would, no doubt, prove a better provider than Constance.
She had failed them. Failed them all.
But no longer.
She dared not bring up her latest idea in front of Mr. Franklin. He'd be the first to dissuade them. But this plan would work. It simply must.
“Mr. Franklin, would you careâ” Mother began.
“What Mother means to say,” Constance interrupted, “is thank you so much for dining with us this evening. While we've enjoyed your company immensely, we've all had a long day and should retire soon.” One peek at Mama would confirm the truth of that. The longer he stayed, the longer Constance would have to wait to propose her idea, and she was nearly bursting already. “Would you care to visit again sometime?” She didn't mention that she intended to be several counties away long before “sometime” arrived.
