Morning Song (8 page)

She'd been quite comfortable lurking behind a bright yellow forsythia bush, observing the festivities while remaining unobserved herself, until Bess Lippman had taken it into her prissy blond head to rescue her. Bess, whom like nearly everyone 62

else at the party Jessie had known since infancy, was a younger version of Celia: sickly sweet on the outside and hard as steel within. Jessie had never liked her, and Bess's mother had long since forbidden her carefully raised daughter to associate with such a hoyden as Jessie. So she'd been understandably surprised when Bess, rounding the forsythia with a sympathetic "Tch-tch," had scolded her in a playful tone for hiding herself away and, linking their arms with a strength that belied her frail appearance, dragged Jessie out.

In fact, Jessie would have been flabbergasted had it not been for the admiration in Oscar Kastel's eyes. Of course, Bess was exhibiting her kindness for the benefit of her tall, thin beau, spectacles and incipient bald spot notwithstanding. If Bess's action helped her snare an offer at last, Jessie thought nastily, then she supposed she ought not to begrudge her interference. After all, Bess was twenty, and on the verge of being an old maid despite her pale prettiness and expensive frocks. Perhaps the young men weren't quite the fools the young ladies were, after all. Certainly, if Bess Lippman's single state was any indication, they weren't as easily deceived by outward appearances. Once she was in public view, Jessie could do nothing but grimly endure as Bess pulled her over to the long table set aside for the young folks. Oscar Kastel had beamed in the background when Bess had gaily called everyone's attention to the forlorn one. As the others greeted her, Jessie had no choice but to force a smile and join them. In the end she had sat with them for the uncomfortable, seemingly endless meal, although no one had talked to her except to exchange the merest courtesies. She had felt miserably out of place, but at least she'd been able to occupy herself with eating some of the delicious barbecue and the crumb 63

cake that was the cook at Tulip Hill's (Jessie thought her name was Clover) specialty. But dancing—or not dancing, while everybody watched, and labeled her a wallflower—was an ordeal she just could not face.

"She's shy," Miss Laurel said with a twinkle in her eyes that were more gray than her sister's. "Don't worry, Jessica, we'll look after you. Come along, dear."

"Please, I . . ."

But protests were useless. Miss Laurel hooked her arm in Jessie's as though they were two young girls together and tugged her toward the opposite side of the house, where the pocket doors separating the two front parlors had been opened and the huge space that resulted cleared for dancing. A musicians' platform screened with vibrant masses of potted flowers had been erected in one corner beside two massive French doors that led to the back portico and rear gardens. The lilting strains of a quadrille emanated from the platform.

Seated on little chairs set around the perimeter of the room, soberly clad matrons of all ages chatted quietly amongst themselves. They would pass the evening by watching the dancers and criticizing the girls and their beaux, taking the floor to dance with only their own husbands or brothers. Marriage automatically relegated a woman to dull clothes and a chair on the sidelines, leaving the pretty, bright dresses and enjoyable flirtations to the young, unmarried girls.

The older gentlemen, to a man undoubtedly dragooned into attendance by their determined wives, congregated around the punchbowl that had been set up along with a table of refreshments in a small antechamber. Their voices rose and fell as they discussed, from the few words Jessie could overhear, 64

various hunting exploits and the falling price of cotton. In the center of the room, perhaps twenty young couples twirled about in the movements of the dance. Jessie knew them all, of course, had known them since birth, but—but . . .

The girls in their soft pastel dresses bore little resemblance to the playmates she remembered from the years before their mothers decided that she wasn't a suitable friend for their darling daughters after all. Every one of them looked so pretty, with their hair all shiny and styled, not in a topknot as hers was, but so that it was tied away from their faces and fell down to their shoulders in fat ringlets.

And their dresses—their dresses were not like hers, either. Their bodices were tiny and revealed far more of their white bosoms than the inch or so of décolletage that had so scandalized Tudi. Their sleeves, though short and puffed, were styled so that they fell away from creamy shoulders, baring them, too. The effect looked rather as if the top of the dress might fall to the wearer's waist at any moment, but all the girls wore them and in their mothers' presence, too, so that it must not only be the fashion but also perfectly respectable. Tiny waists were accentuated by enormous sashes, sashes that ended in the back in huge bows and trailing streamers and were wide enough to make the sash around Jessie's waist look like a mere ribbon. Skirts were huge and billowing, longer in back than in front, so that small satin slippers and an occasional tantalizing glimpse of ankle were visible as the dancers whirled.

The dresses they wore on the dance floor were not the same garments they had worn to the picnic earlier. Jessie realized with a sinking feeling that all the young girls except her had brought dance dresses with them, and changed into them after supper. 65

Her patched-together gown looked more out of place than ever in comparison with the frothy confections the other girls wore for dancing. But how could she have known that they would change? And, given her limited wardrobe, what could she have done about it if she had known?

Watching, Jessie felt acutely self-conscious. Her own sartorial shortcomings were painfully obvious even to her. With her faded, old-fashioned dress rendered even more dreadful by Sissie's bright pink embellishments, Jessie knew that she looked woefully out of place. If only everyone would leave her alone, she would steal away somewhere and hide until it was time to go home. By coming, she had appeased Celia and given tacit approval to the marriage. Celia was fully occupied in exhibiting her catch, and would neither know nor care if Jessie quietly disappeared until the evening was over. It it ever
was
over . . . But the Misses Edwards had other ideas.

Miss Flora fell in on Jessie's other side, linking her arm with Jessie's, too. Jessie had no choice but to let the two old ladies bear her off. They tugged her toward the gaiety like two small keelboats towing a paddle wheeler.

"Now, then, let's see if we can't find you a partner," Miss Flora said, to Jessie's horror, pausing in the doorway to survey the room. Unable to free herself from the ladies or think of any way to politely circumvent them, Jessie was forced to stand between them, miserably aware of how dreadful she must look in comparison. The Misses Edwards were plump but small. Neither of their silvery heads reached past Jessie's shoulder. Despite their advanced age, their gowns put hers to shame. Miss Laurel was dressed sumptuously in lavender satin, while Miss Flora was clad almost identically in mauve.

66

The music swelled. Laughter and chatter filled the air. Eleanor Bids well, resplendent in an apple-green gauze gown, floated by in the arms of blond Chaney Dart. Jessie had know her as Nell when they were little girls of seven and eight, but the petite redhead on the dance floor bore no resemblance to her childhood friend. Tall and willowy Susan Latow, in blue-sprigged muslin, danced with dark-haired Lewis Russell, while Margaret Culpepper, small, dark, and slightly plump but making the most of it in a low-cut gown of palest peach, was partnered by Howie Duke. Mitchell Todd wove his way through the crowd, a full punch glass in his hand, obviously on his way to find his partner, who must be sitting somewhere on the sidelines cooling off while he fetched her a drink. Mitch, who with his soft brown curls and hazel eyes had held a special place in her heart forever.

. . .

"Mitchell! Mitchell Todd!"

Jessie was horrified to hear Miss Flora screech across the dance floor to none other than the object of every single one of her adolescent yearnings. Her head swung desperately toward Miss Flora, her mouth opened to object, but it was too late.

"Yes, ma'am?" With his customary good manners, Mitch turned and lifted his eyebrows at Miss Flora inquiringly. He had to raise his voice to make it heard over the din, but it was still the velvety voice that sent shivers down Jessie's spine every time she heard it. Then his eyes left Miss Flora and he was looking at her instead and Jessie thought she would die. . . .

"Come over here, Mitchell, and dance with Jessica!" This command, boomed at the volume of a cannon firing, made Jessie long to sink through the floor. Her face turned seventeen shades of crimson as Mitch hesitated, glanced at the full cup in his hand, 67

then shrugged and headed toward the threesome in the doorway. If a heavenly chorus had announced that the world was ending right at that moment, Jessie would have fallen to her knees and given thanks. If a killer tornado had whirled through the valley and blown Tulip Hill and all therein into the next county, she would have considered herself saved. If . . .

But there was no more time for ifs. Mitch stood in front of her. Frozen with embarrassment, Jessie couldn't even look at him, much less summon the wit to try to circumvent what was about to happen.

"I'm sorry, Miss Flora, I couldn't hear what you said," he said mildly, smiling at the old lady. His front two teeth overlapped slightly, giving him an endearing boyish quality that made Jessie's heart go pitter-pat. Evidently he'd been trying to grow a mustache, because there was a line of brown fuzz above his upper lip. This evidence of burgeoning masculinity made her palms go damp. Or maybe the cause was sheer nervousness.

"She said you should dance with Jessica," Miss Laurel interjected. Jessie cringed. Her palms grew damper.

"Why—why—" He was taken aback, Jessie could tell he was taken aback, and of course he didn't want to, but what could he say? His innate good manners would leave him no recourse. "It'll be my pleasure. If you'll take this punch, Miss Laurel. It's certainly delicious, by the way. Please give Clover my compliments on the recipe." Miss Laurel took the punch cup with a smile while Miss Flora tittered thanks for the compliment to their cook. Mitch held out his hand to Jessie. She looked from it to his face with paralyzing mortification. What could she do? What should she say? She didn't want him to dance with her because he was forced into it. 68

"Well, Jessie—I mean, Miss Jessica—shall we have a go?" He'd known her forever, of course, and as children they'd been Jessie and Mitch to each other, but now he was Mr. Todd and she— But that was precisely the trouble. She was
not
Miss Jessica. That was the name of an elegant young lady like all the other elegant young ladies. Like Eleanor and Susan and Margaret and Bess.

"Go on now, Jessica. Have a good time, and don't trouble your head about us."

Miss Flora, bless her, whether from ignorance or kindness, had ascribed Jessie's hesitation to a pretty unwillingness to leave her two hostesses to themselves.

"I—" Jessie opened her mouth to refuse, to tell Mitch that he was off the hook because she couldn't dance, didn't want to dance, particularly didn't want to dance with him, of all people, but he seized her hand and pulled her toward the dance floor before she could get the words out.

"Jessica's going to be our niece now, you know!" Miss Laurel—or was it Miss Flora?—called after them as Mitch drew her out onto the floor. Then he was turning toward her, smiling, while cold sweat prickled down her spine and her feet, like her tongue, turned to stone.

The music changed. The tempo grew livelier. A murmur ran around the dance floor.

"A reel!" came the excited cry from all around them. There was a flurry of applause, and then everyone scattered, hurrying to form the parallel lines needed for this dance. Mitch looked at her with a shrug and a smile. Jessie, near giddy with relief at being spared the awful confession that she could not dance, to say nothing of the spectacle she was sure she would make of herself 69

if she tried, managed to smile back. It was nine-tenths pure relief, but it was a smile.

Just when Jessie was thinking that there must be a God in heaven after all, just when she was thanking her lucky stars or her patron saint or her fairy godmother or whoever it was who had arranged her salvation, Mitch grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the forming line. Other couples, laughing and chattering, fell in behind and beside them. The gentlemen lined up on one side, the ladies on the other.

The reel was a general favorite, and this time the dancers included young and old alike. On her left was Margaret Culpepper. On her right was Lissa Chandler, a matron of about Celia's age who was the mother of four young daughters. The fiddler moved to the front of the platform and lifted his fiddle high. The announcer called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, grab your partners!" Then the announcer bowed and stepped back with a flourish. The fiddler struck up, his bow moving busily across the instrument as he scraped out the rollicking rhythm of the reel.

As the guest of honor, Celia and Stuart were the first to skip through the laughing, clapping corridor. Watching, Jessie supposed that they looked well together. Certainly they were a study in contrasts, with Celia so blond and petite and Stuart Edwards so tall and dark. Celia's cream satin skirt belled out around her as she danced, swinging from side to side and lending her an air of unaccustomed vivacity. Her cheeks were flushed rosily, and her pale gray eyes sparkled. It was an evening of triumph for Celia, and she was clearly enjoying every moment of it. Certainly she looked prettier than Jessie could ever remember seeing her. As for Stuart Edwards—much as Jessie hated to 70

admit it, and she did hate to admit it, in his elegant black evening clothes he was a sight to steal a female's breath away. Which only went to prove the old adage about beauty being no more than skin-deep.

But she was obviously the only female of whatever age present who hadn't fallen under the spell of his good looks. Ever since he had arrived, the ladies had been following him with their eyes. The bolder ones had openly flirted with him, reluctantly acknowledging Celia's prior claim but still determined to try their luck. Even some of the older married ladies had given him more than one come-hither look. To his credit—and Jessie hated to acknowledge that there was anything that was to his credit, searching for an ulterior motive that would account for his circumspection—he had not seemed to accord any of them more than polite attention. He had stayed properly at his fiancée’s side all day, deflecting female silliness with a smile and a quip, while Celia showed him off like a hunter with a trophy, queening it over the other ladies because she had him and they only wished they did.