by Sawyer North
Her eyes grew wide before narrowing as a lovely grin shaped her lips. “Why, sir! Is that not an overly forward request to make of a pupil? Should not such impropriety violate at least four or five of the many rules on which you have drilled me?”
He stumbled mentally, not expecting that response. “See here. As your mentor in the mysterious ways of Society, I am a bastion of wisdom in which you must place your unwavering trust. My requests must be obeyed without question.”
She curtsied deeply—and perfectly. “Yes, oh, wise and erudite scholar. I trust you implicitly, despite your continuous stream of illogic and unreason regarding the rules of this befuddling game. To mistrust you would end the game, and for now, I find it sufficiently amusing to continue.”
He glared down his nose at her. “Take care with your ridicule, oh, unworthy student, or I shall be required to rap your knuckles and enforce a diet of split pea soup for the duration of your stay.”
“Wonderful! When do we begin? I rather adore split pea soup, especially as it matches the spot on your cravat.”
He lowered his eyes quickly to scan his cravat before realizing she had duped him. He shook a finger and shot her the stern glare of a mirthless schoolmaster. “I warn you, young lady. You must show proper respect, or I will…I will…”
“Will what?” she said with a giggle. He impulsively stepped toward her and gripped an elbow in each hand. Her laughter died immediately, and she stared at him with uncertain eyes while breathing rapidly. He held his position for the space of several yammering heartbeats, his lips frozen in mid-utterance. Lucy was a well of enticement, a storehouse of wishes and dreams, a source of life and revitalization. And he was tilting ever nearer to a decisive and perhaps fatal plunge. The subtle pressure of Lucy leaning slightly into his grip allowed him to regain a modicum of reason. He dropped his hands, stepped away, and averted his eyes to avoid her remarkable gaze.
“Pardon me, my lady. I overstepped my bounds. Please forgive my impudence.”
He cut his eyes toward Lucy to find her still watching him. She opened her mouth twice to speak but no words emerged. Then she dropped her eyes to the book in her hands.
“I thank you for the book…Henry.” Her lips turned up in a tenuous smile.
“You are welcome, Lady Margaret.”
“I prefer Lucy. When you call me by that name, I feel like my true self, and not a pretender.”
He nodded slowly while sorting through his bewildered emotions. His frown relaxed. “Then I will do so more often, Lucy. For the sake of the mission, of course.” He hesitated while debating his next words. “You must exude confidence if you are to attract the regard of a suitor.”
Her smile appeared to falter before resuming under duress. “As you wish. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to return to my chambers to peruse this book.”
She dipped her chin and exited through the open door. He watched the empty doorframe for a time before turning toward the books. He brushed the newly empty place on the shelf previously occupied by the biology text while wrestling with a puzzling sense of loss. When no conclusion appeared, he sighed.
“’Tis a stupid rule,” he whispered aloud, not knowing quite what he meant by it. As he left the library, he carefully shut the doors as if to trap something wild inside.
…
An hour later, Henry watched Lucy enter the ballroom. Her hands were clenched at her waist with white-knuckled force. She once again seemed more a prisoner facing execution than a wealthy debutante.
“Come, Lucy,” Charlotte said. “It is only a dance lesson. Surely you have danced before.”
“Yes, but not likely anything suitable for the ballroom.”
“Oh? Show me, then.”
“Really, Charlotte, I do not think…”
“No,” Charlotte said with enthusiasm, “demonstrate. I should love to see your dancing.”
Lucy cut her eyes toward Henry as if pleading for escape. He briefly considered grabbing her hand and fleeing to the fields. Shaking away the impulse, he instead smiled. “Perhaps you should indulge my sister. Her persistence is legendary in two counties. I am certain she could lay siege to France if necessary.”
Lucy sighed. “Right, then. Just remember, you asked for this.”
With that warning, she grabbed her skirt with both hands, hiked it above her shoe tops, and began to jig madly while singing rapidly.
“Ta mo stoca is mo bhroga ag an rogarie dubh. Ta mo stoca is mo bhroga ag an rogarie dubh.”
Henry stared both aghast and highly interested as her memorable ankles flashed with each step.
“Ta mo stoca is mo bhroga ag an rogarie dubh. Mo naipicin poca le blain sa la inniu.”
Charlotte descended on Lucy with her face drained of color. “Stop, dear. Enough.”
She stopped. “Did I not warn you?”
“You did. I never dreamed you would dance that…”
“Irish jig. Taught to me by a Mr. Flaherty of Cork, who made his living entertaining crowds while his associates fleeced the pockets of the audience. He said I was quite good and invited me to join his troupe. I declined, of course.”
“Of course,” Charlotte choked. She narrowed her eyes. “Just what were you singing then?”
Lucy smiled proudly. “The Black Rogue, in the original Gaelic. You have heard of it?”
Charlotte and Henry slowly shook their heads. She frowned.
“No?” She began to sing again, but in English.
“The black rogue has taken my socks and shoes. The black rogue has taken my socks and shoes. The black rogue…”
“Again,” Henry interrupted, bringing Lucy to silence. “that will do. You will find no Irish jigs performed at functions attended by folks of a certain station. They consider jigs desperately vulgar.”
She frowned again, perhaps insulted. He acted quickly to rectify the slight. “However, I rather enjoy a good jig. Sergeant McClintock taught me this one in France and made me dance it for the men just before Waterloo.”
With that, he began flailing his legs rapidly while slapping thigh and sole. Lucy’s returning smile lent him strength, and he danced until his sister burst into tearful laughter. After finishing, he met Lucy’s eyes, breathless.
“What do you think?”
“Truly awful. It is a wonder such a display did not cost our men victory in France. Please refrain from further outbreaks of madness or I shall be forced to put out my eyes.”
He laughed. “As you wish, Lucy.”
Charlotte swallowed her laughter immediately. “You call her Lucy now?”
Henry stood mute, staring like a fool. Lucy laughed. “I ordered him to do so. It seems I outrank him.”
A crooked smile grew on Charlotte’s lips as she glanced between Lucy and him. Then she shook her head. “Now, Lucy. Let us turn to a more acceptable form of movement—the country dance, quadrille, and scotch reel. As we can assemble only a foursome, we must keep the movements basic.”
“Very well. Do your worst.”
Henry watched Lucy fidget as Charlotte retrieved the head housekeeper and steward. While the housekeeper took to the pianoforte, Charlotte dragged Henry into the lesson and began to teach the dance, pairing Lucy with the steward and Henry with herself. Henry watched carefully as Lucy made a valiant effort to learn the steps, pattern of movement, and musical cues. The effect was one of a hen hunting seeds as she lurched from position to position with abrupt and graceless movements. Over the course of thirty minutes, her expression shifted from amusement to concern until well on its way toward humiliation. As her confidence fell, his empathy rose. When she appeared near tears, he halted the lesson.
“Lucy,” he said gently. “Perhaps we should step onto the patio for a breath of fresh air.”
“I suppose.” Her response exuded dismay.
He offered an arm. She glanced u
p at him uncertainly before accepting it as one might receive a live viper. A tingle of pleasure raced up his arm from where her fingers touched. The sensation threatened to addle him. While Charlotte looked on, bemused, he led Lucy onto the patio.
“Do you recall the moment we first reacquainted not long ago?” he said.
She looked up at him as they slowly circled the patio. “Yes. How could I forget?”
“And do you recall what you did?”
“Of course. I disarmed you with a rapier.”
“Exactly. I never told you how much that impressed me. You moved so lithely, so smoothly, so determinedly. The distraction overcame me as much as your weapon did.”
Her cheeks flooded with color. “Still, I bested you squarely.”
“That you did. And might I suggest you will best not only the country dance, but also the scotch reel and quadrille?”
She eyed him with skepticism. “How?”
“By fencing instead of dancing.”
“Pardon me?”
He gazed up at the flawless afternoon sky in thought, searching for a way to describe his idea. “Fencing is nothing more than a form of dance, but with an implement of death in one’s hand rather than an evening glove. It follows a pattern. One must react to the movements of one’s partner, maintaining appropriate separation before engaging, and countering the steps of the other with steps of one’s own.”
Her eyebrows arched slowly. “Do you speak the truth?”
“Of course. Many dancing masters also teach fencing, and vice versa. The two activities are sides of a coin, one for pleasure, one for pain. Not so unlike love in that way.”
She stared at the ground as they continued to stroll around the patio, clearly deep in thought. After a time, she looked up at him with resolution in her sparkling eyes. “I am ready to try again.”
He led her into the ballroom quickly before she could reconsider. “Shall we resume, Charlotte?”
His sister nodded with a mysterious smile. Everyone returned to their positions. As the music commenced, Lucy slid smoothly into movement. Henry’s lips turned up slightly as he observed the fingers of her right hand curled in a loose clench as if holding a foil. Her eyes focused sharply on the steward with the same intensity he had noticed when she disarmed him in the forest, and she moved through the motions with a grace absent earlier. His smile grew wider.
Charlotte leaned toward him with a mocking grin. “Why are you smiling, brother?”
“It is nothing, other than our pupil is performing admirably.”
“Indeed. You appear to have inspired her.”
After an hour of practice and a brief respite, Charlotte recruited several more abashed servants to form the requisite number for dancing the quadrille. Charlotte turned to Henry. “You should partner with Lady Margaret, now.”
He tugged his cravat. “Well…”
“It is done, then.”
He relented but remained puzzled by his uncertainty. After a period of instruction and demonstration by Charlotte and the steward, the quadrille commenced with Henry and Lucy as the fourth couple. When the time came for them to move, he found himself unnerved whenever the pattern brought her to him with hand outstretched. He gripped her gloved hand lightly on each iteration, letting loose only reluctantly. Despite her constant presence for several weeks, she seemed a stranger during the dance, an undiscovered treasure. The mystery baffled him. Meanwhile, Lucy gazed at him with a fencer’s focus and parted lips, driving him further into confusion. He breathed a deep sigh when Charlotte finally halted the session and dismissed the staff.
“We shall require practice every day for some time to properly prepare Lucy. However, I believe she performed very well today.”
“Yes,” managed Henry with a mumble, “but with a caveat.”
Lucy glanced at him with concern. “Oh? What did I do wrong?”
“It is nothing, really, but in the interest of propriety, I would offer a slight correction. A noble woman moves from the hips downward, leaving her torso erect and unmoving. When you dance, your torso is a bit more…lively. And likely distracting to your partner.”
She put her hand to her mouth briefly before apologizing. “Forgive me. I was not aware of that fact. However, the presence of such a flaw only stands to reason.”
“Because?”
“Because I first learned to dance by imitating Madam Kamescro, the beautiful young gypsy wife of one of Steadman’s associates. What you say explains one of my longstanding questions, though.”
“And what question is that?”
“Why all the men watched with slack jaws when she danced. I always believed they regarded only her skill. Now, I know differently.”
Charlotte giggled. “And she showed you a gypsy dance?”
“She did, in fact.”
“How does it go? Will you demonstrate for us?”
“I do not believe that will be necess…” Henry began, but his words came too late. Lucy began to move in a gyration of hip, torso, shoulder, and neck that stole the words from his lips. Only after a few moments did he realize his jaw had gone slack. He glanced at his sister to find her blushing in fascination. He gripped Lucy’s shoulder to halt her movements.
“That, uh, will be quite enough.” He wiped his abruptly perspiring brow with the back of a hand. She gazed up at him with a frown, clearly wondering what she had done wrong. His frown turned up slightly.
“You most certainly did Madam Kamescro justice in your rendition of her dance. However, perhaps you should avoid such demonstrations when in noble company. I fear others would neither understand nor appreciate your unique gypsy education. And now, if you will excuse me, I desire a long walk.”
Without another word, he exited the ballroom on his way to the fields, more bewildered than ever.
…
Late afternoon found Lucy huddled inside Henry’s childhood hideaway behind the secret panel. Sunlight filtered through the small, still-grimy window high on the wall of the narrow space, doing little to illuminate her confusion over Henry’s abrupt departure. While pondering the situation, she realized several truths that had somehow eluded her before. Firstly, Henry’s general demeanor toward her had altered over the past weeks from open animosity to kindness to…something more. Secondly, she had found him watching her no longer in the manner of a critic, but in a more unnerving way. Finally, she was coming to accept the astonishing realization that she reciprocated his possible feelings—a fact that merely added to her general sense of bafflement.
Weary of the cycle of unresolved thought, she began picking through a stack of dust-covered books. Her attempt to brush them clean produced a series of sneezes that eventually forced her to wipe her nose discreetly on a sleeve. Then, a familiar book tucked into the corner caught her eye. She leaned to retrieve it and brushed away a thick coat of dust.
“Robinson Crusoe,” she whispered. Memories of that day long ago crowded the space, nearly springing to life in her vivid recollection. Henry had seemed glum then, but her presence had appeared to revive him. It was no wonder she had been so effusive then. That day had represented the peak of her hopes, the apex of her future plans. Little did she know at the time that her castle of dreams would soon come crashing down.
As she cracked open the book, a new round of dust erupted from its pages, producing another fit of sneezing. This time, however, when she looked up from wiping her sleeve, a face startled her.
“Lud! You surprised me, Henry!”
He dipped through the panel door and stood before her, tall and handsome, his features as sullen as they were on the day she first met him. “A commotion behind the wall caught my attention. I did not expect to find you here.”
After he failed to move, she attempted to engage him in conversation. “Did you find your walk…suitable?”
“It served the desired purpose
, yes.”
“And the weather was amenable?”
“Yes. A pleasant temperature and sporadic cover of clouds. A gentle breeze to wick away warmth.” He paused. “I trust your afternoon passed contentedly.”
“Yes, it has.” However, she knew it to be a lie as the words left her lips. She lowered guilt-ridden eyes to the floor.
“You do not seem content, Lucy.”
She glanced up at him and knew the time for frank conversation had arrived. She drew a deep breath. “I am not content.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
She looked away as thoughts roiled in her head. She wished to discuss the growing feelings between them. However, suitable words failed to emerge. After a tense delay, he lurched toward her and seated himself by her side on the small bench. The tiny space left them touching hip to hip. She rejected the notion to stand and instead tightly gripped the book. She cut her eyes toward him. Henry’s brow contorted in a knot, and he wrung his hands. His jaw flexed as if about to expel words. When he finally did, she focused her full attention on his downcast face.
“I must confess I have been less than forthcoming with you.”
She drew a sharp breath and waited for some resolution to the impasse. He tried but seemed to suffer the same paralysis of speech that afflicted her.
“It is simply… Well, you see… I mean to say…”
He fell silent. Then his face fell lower and his fidgeting hands came apart to hang limply between his knees.
“Yes, Henry?”
He abruptly stood and stepped toward the panel before facing her. His eyes bore defeat. “Regardless of my personal feelings, I cannot…”
Her eyes grew narrow. “Cannot what?”
His hands clenched into fists before going limp as he apparently discarded the desired response. Then he sighed. “It is nothing. I meant not to disturb your solitude with my troubles. Please forgive me.”
Without waiting for her response, he backed through the small opening and gently closed the panel door. In his absence, the dim space seemed darker still, and the book became a dead weight in her hands.