Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er

And neither have I wings to fly

Build me a boat that can carry two

And both shall row, my love and I…

Martin stopped singing and looked down at Leah. The song, one of Eleanor’s favorites, had done its work. The little one was sound asleep.

“Martin, here’s Jason Tewkes to see you.”

The interruption pushed away the memory of Eleanor’s strong, sweet voice shaping the melody. Martin tucked the quilt around his daughter and went downstairs.

Jason sat at the table, his spare frame as awkward and angular as ever. Martin hadn’t seen him more than twice since Eleanor’s funeral.

“Now then, Jason, aren’t you off to Carston tonight?” The annual harvest dance was happening in the Carston Hall, and Martin knew Jason hadn’t missed one for years. They’d played at the dance together for the previous five.

Jason didn’t look like a man on his way to a good time. Sober-faced, he shifted in his chair. “Aye, but Charles Brantley isn’t. His wife’s ill, and he can’t leave her. Henry Clark and Pierce Jacobs will be there, I’m sure, but they won’t bring their fiddles, and they live too far away to go home for them. I don’t fancy playing the dance alone with just my flute, but there it is unless you’ll come along with me.”

A chill settled in the pit of Martin’s stomach at the thought. Playing at home was one thing, but facing a crowd of merrymakers at a dance… No. “Borrow my fiddle, Jason. You’ll do well enough.”

“I don’t know a whole night’s worth of fiddle tunes, Martin, you know that.”

“Then get Henry or Pierce to play it. I’m out of practice.”

Martin knew Jason had heard him play often enough over the years that he wouldn’t believe that for a minute, but he had too much tact to argue the point. He got up with a sigh. “Well, I’ll be off then. I’ll take your fiddle if you don’t mind. One of the other lads can play it.”

Martin rose to walk him to the door. Then.…

Go.
Eleanor’s voice, as soft and clear as if she’d spoken in his ear. His vision blurred for a moment with the shock of it. He blinked and brought the room back into focus.

Jason stared at him. “Lad, what’s the matter?”

Martin blinked again. Jessie’s sharp eyes were on him, questioning.

Nothing like this had happened to him before. He must have imagined it, but then why did he still feel Eleanor’s presence in the room?

It didn’t matter why. Sitting home now would be more difficult than going to the dance. “Nothing’s the matter. Hold on a minute, Jason, I’m going with you.”

* * *

“You’ve got a button undone. Hold still. There.” Jean looked over Chelle’s shoulder and grinned at her in the mirror. “I’ll have to tell Brian to keep an eye on you tonight. You’re likely to cause a stir.”

Chelle looked down at her royal-blue, challie dress with its off-the-shoulder ruffled neckline, no lower than Jean’s. “Why do you say that? I’m sure there’ll be dresses less modest than ours there tonight.”

“Aye, there will, but there won’t be figures like yours inside them.” Jean’s brow puckered as she fastened a gold chain around her neck. “I’ve gotten thin since Peter came, but what’s the odds? Brian doesn’t seem to mind.”

Jean wore a sunny yellow gown that set off the sparkle of her eyes and the sheen of her hair. The princess-seamed bodice accented her slender waist and breasts enhanced by motherhood. Chelle didn’t wonder that Brian had no complaints. “Are you ready? I hear him outside.”

Out in the twilit yard, Brian helped them both onto the cart seat and wrapped his arm around his wife. “I don’t know as I want to take you out tonight, Jeannie. I think I’d just as soon keep you home.”

Jean gave him a flirtatious smile. As they started off, Chelle wrapped her mother’s embroidered shawl more tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the fine evening. A plump crescent of a moon hung in the crystal sky ahead of them, surrounded by early stars. They were going to the harvest dance at the Carston Hall, the first dance Chelle had attended in over a year. For the first time since her mother’s death, she remembered that she was nineteen years old and attractive, without the responsibility of a household on her shoulders. A glow of anticipation built inside her.

As they passed the Rainnie lane, Chelle got a glimpse of lamplight from the farmhouse windows. She looked back as they drove past, picturing Leah asleep in the little room upstairs. Smoke curled from both the house’s chimneys. Jessie usually baked on Saturday evenings, and Martin was likely settling down to spend the evening by the hearth.

Chelle ignored the tug at her heart and turned back to the road, now bathed in moonlight. The night seemed made to be enjoyed, and she intended to do just that. For a few hours, she wouldn’t let anything else matter.

They reached the hall to find the yard full of farm carts, wagons, and buggies. Inside, the benches lining the stone walls were already filling up. Lanterns hung from the rafters, adding to the heat already building in the room.

The musicians still hadn’t taken their places on the platform at one end of the hall. The McShannons found space on a bench. Leaning back against the wall, Chelle scanned the room. She didn’t know any of the Carston people.

Three older couples stood chatting near the platform. When they separated, laughing, to return to their seats, Chelle’s heart did a queer little flutter. Though his broad back was turned to her, Martin stood there, fiddle in his hand, deep in conversation with a man about the age of her father. A moment later the two of them stepped onto the platform.

The first sharp, clear notes of the flute caught the crowd’s attention. They fell silent, then burst into cheers when Martin joined his companion in a fast, driving rant. Someone shouted out, “Welcome back, lad!” They settled into a reel and in a blink, two sets of dancers formed. Chelle didn’t know the steps to this particular figure, but they looked simple enough. When a third set formed, Brian led Jean out onto the floor.

As she had at the farm, Chelle lost herself in Martin’s music. Tapping her foot in time, she forgot the dancers until the reel ended. As the sets re-formed, someone tapped her shoulder.

“May I have the pleasure?”

Startled, Chelle looked up at a stocky young man with a shock of blond hair and a pleasant smile.

“Yes, I’d be glad to.”

The music began again. Her partner was a good dancer, and Chelle soon caught on to the steps. The music carried her along until she felt lighter than she had in many months.

Would Martin dance tonight? If he did, would he ask her? Her pulse quickened at the thought. This must be the first time he’d played in public since losing his wife. How was he feeling? A little ashamed of the glow of warmth that came over her, Chelle turned her thoughts back to her partner and the music.

* * *

Martin played the first reel through a storm of conflicting emotions. The welcoming cheers from the crowd touched him. Memories overwhelmed him. It wasn’t until the beginning of the third tune that he dared to look out over the dance floor.

His gaze settled on Chelle as she moved neatly through the figures, flushed and smiling, her bright hair gathered in a soft knot on top of her head, exposing the slim line of her neck. He hadn’t thought about her being here. It would surely make tongues wag, this soon after losing her mother, just as people would talk about him playing. He didn’t give a damn what anyone said about him, but Chelle’s reputation was another matter.

Martin had a speaking acquaintance with her partner, who came from one of the farms on the other side of Carston. Lester Barrow was a decent lad, and Chelle seemed to be enjoying herself with him. When the tune ended, another Carston man took Lester’s place. By intermission time, Chelle had danced with eight or nine different partners and Martin’s nerves were as taut as the strings on his fiddle.

You’re daft, Martin. What’s the odds who she dances with? You’re not in the market.
But his jealousy tangled with all the other feelings raised by being here and wouldn’t be rooted out.

He stepped off the platform and joined the line at the refreshment table. Sipping his punch, he caught sight of Drew Markham lounging against the wall across the room, watching someone intently. Martin followed Drew’s gaze to where Chelle stood with her cousin and his wife. His fists clenched, eager to make the man’s teeth rattle.

Jealousy. Protectiveness. Martin had no call to feel either, but they overwhelmed him. He returned to the platform, picked up his fiddle and held it out to Jason. “Play a couple of tunes to start off, will you?”

Jason quirked an eyebrow as he took the fiddle. “Fancy joining a set? Go on, then.”

Martin eased his way through the crowd, his pulse drumming in his ears like it had at eighteen when he asked a girl to dance. The color on Chelle’s face deepened and spread to her throat when she saw him.

Standing beside her, her cousin held out his hand. “Good to see you here, Martin. You haven’t lost your touch.”

“Thanks.” He shook Brian’s hand, then turned to Chelle. “Chelle, Jason’s going to start off the next set. May I have the pleasure?”

Chelle smiled and mimicked his broad Yorkshire. “Aye, sir, I’d be flattered.”

Jason began a jig. Martin took Chelle’s hand. The warmth of her skin spread through him instantly and stayed with him as he guided her through the steps. She wore some kind of citrusy perfume that made him think of tropical, exotic places. Some of her hair had worked loose to float in soft wisps around her face, delicate, and alluring.

She could dance. She had rhythm, and she knew how to relax into the music. Caught up in her nearness, Martin felt as if only seconds had passed when the tune ended.

Their eyes met. Chelle averted her gaze right away, but not before he saw her pupils dilate. Jason slid into a waltz. A squeeze of Chelle’s hand brought her back into Martin’s arms.

Holding her, even lightly like this, was heaven and hell combined. No normal man could be impervious to the flush on Chelle’s skin, the creamy shoulders and distracting hint of cleavage revealed by her dress. Martin hadn’t bargained on the strength of the pull between them. It had been a long time.

“I’d say you’ve done a lot of dancing.”

Chelle looked up, her gaze casual and friendly again. She might be young, but she knew how to play the game. “Yes. I’d say you have, too.”

“Aye. Eleanor and I used to go to most of the dances hereabouts.” How many evenings had they spent in this hall? So many that Eleanor’s presence lingered here, pulling at Martin’s heart while his senses focused on the girl in his arms.

“So I’ve heard. I was a little surprised to see you here tonight.”

Somehow, Chelle’s voice helped to calm the turmoil inside him. “I’m surprised to be here.”

Her hand shifted on his shoulder, a slight, unconscious comforting movement. “How does it feel?”

“It’s difficult.” Martin guided Chelle around a younger couple who were too wrapped up in each other to have any notion of where they were on the floor. He caught a look at the young man’s face and hoped to God he didn’t look just as thunderstruck. “Still, I’m glad I’m here.”

Chelle looked up at him. “I’m glad you’re here, too. Your music is so much a part of you, it would be a shame for you to give it up.”

Martin recalled that strange moment at the house. Could that have been Eleanor telling him it was time to move on, to start living again? If so, why did he feel this wrenching sense of disloyalty at the way Chelle affected him? “Perhaps.”

She averted her eyes again. As the waltz went on, Martin got more and more caught up in the feel of Chelle under his hands. People were watching them, but they’d watch him no matter who he danced with. He should care for Chelle’s sake, but he couldn’t. Too many contradictory feelings swamped him, drowning out the voice of common sense.

When the waltz ended, Martin took Chelle’s hand and led her to the door. She went with him willingly, as if she knew something had to be said. They stepped out into the starlit dark of the yard and walked down the lane, away from the lights and from any couples who might have sought privacy around the back of the hall. Hadn’t he and Eleanor done that more than once?

Chelle hadn’t said a word. Martin felt the frantic rhythm of her pulse through the satiny skin of her wrist. They stopped in the shadow of an oak. “Chelle, I’m sorry. I…”

His voice failed him. If he could have seen her face clearly he might have been able to stop, but he could only feel her warmth, hear her breathing. His hands dropped to her waist, trembled at her swift intake of breath. Then his mouth found hers, and they melted together like spring snow on sun-warmed earth.

Chelle’s body tightened, then relaxed on a soft sigh. Her hands came up to grip Martin’s shoulders as if to keep from falling. She’d been kissed before, by someone who knew how, that was for sure and certain. She explored his mouth with a sweet fervor that made his blood pound in his ears.

When the power of thought returned Martin broke the kiss and stepped back, his breathing ragged. This was wrong, and more than that, foolish beyond excuse. “Chelle, on my word, I never meant—”