Chapter Twenty-One
Music filled the rooms of the hall with a force equal to the number of guests. Grey, stark walls lit by lamps, a wooden floor which thudded beneath the lively steps of dancers crushed within its space, the ring of observers seeming as high-spirited as the ones engaged. A heavy scent of sweat and musty lumber, a screech of fiddles and concertina beneath the trill of a Gaelic pipe.
Thus was the scene at Warrick’s public hall, a place as unknown to Kitty’s sight and senses as a street in the Orient. Here, in her pink muslin and slippers, with no familiar face in the dimly-lit room except Hetta’s, she felt fear creep over her in waves.
In the carriage, Kitty had held her doubts close. The lights of the public hall bobbed outside the coach's windows, an unearthly motion which half-persuaded her to remain within and be taken back straightaway. It was only Hetta's narrative of the respectability of village dances and her own experiences at events in the past which prevented it.
"There are none of those rules of introduction or limits upon partners which exist among the genteel," she said. "But there is not the coarseness or vulgar liberality which everyone assumes. I have been above six times in my life to village dances and have never been treated in an untoward manner."
"I cannot imagine you dancing with a laborer somehow," said Kitty, who pictured the Miss Harwick of her youth, whom, it had been said at the time, would not stoop to an engagement with a baron's heir when there was yet an unmarried viscount who might be persuaded.
"Can you not?" said Hetta. "I did on more than one occasion. I cannot deny that one of them was the most pleasant partner which I have known." Her voice altered with this statement, her smile also, in a manner which altogether softened her lively countenance.
“See, Kitty?” Hetta’s voice was quite loud as she pressed her friend’s arm, the two of them crushed close in the crowd of strangers in all manner of garb and countenance. “These are respectable people–I would suspect even the minister himself might be amongst them.”
The manner of dress around them ranged from the respectable shabbiness of country farmwives and the “finery” of manor house laborers, to the best dress of the honest fortune and middle-class merchant of the surrounding villages. A crowd of well-scrubbed faces and finely-stitched lace collars, a velvet coat or two and polished buckle shoes. A few children were present, although most were nearly grown to the point of a "debut" if such a thing existed in rural society.
The tremendous pounding of the dancers close by prevented Kitty from answering her friend's remarks. She was assailed on every side by the turn and movement of strangers, her hold upon Hetta's arm relinquished in order for her friend to squeeze closer to the scene of dancers in the middle of the room.
With a final trill, the country orchestra ceased to play, if only for a moment. Hetta was speaking with two ladies standing nearby, then disappeared from Kitty‘s sight altogether behind the moving tide of observers.
When Kitty reached the spot where Hetta had stood, there was only the party of observers there, who glanced at her with curiosity as she stood gazing about, buffeted by the movement of others in the crowd. A kindly-faced gentleman was escorting his partner from the floor and, taking notice of her eager glance and misinterpreting it, offered her a bow.
“Would you care for a turn about the floor?” he asked. “There’s a want o’ partners tonight and I should be ‘appy for the honor.”
“Oh, I do not–I should not–” began Kitty, to cry off. She caught sight of Hetta again, who was already engaged with a partner for the next turn.
“’T’would be my pleasure, Miss.” The man held out his hand. It would not do to be rude; it was unbearable to be left as she was, abandoned by Hetta and without any means of introduction.
“You are very kind, sir,” she answered, hesitantly. Thus, Kitty placed her own hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the dancers assembled.
There was a hoarse scratch from the fiddle’s strings, then its musician plied the bow to form a steady Celtic tune. The rest of the band followed swiftly after this first verse and the dance was begun.
Swift and resounding, the feet of the dancers pounded against the boards beneath. In her youth, Kitty had known many a lively reel and country dance, but this was a breed altogether beyond her memory. It borrowed much from the steps and rhythms of its Celtic region, compounded by a great informality of contact between partners which would be shocking indeed if the waltz was not already a creature known to London’s ballrooms.
Her partner’s arm was linked with her own, turning her in a swift circle with the steps of a jig equaling the beat of the band. On either side of Kitty were young ladies bedecked in ribbons and muslins brighter than her own. Further down the line of the dance, she glimpsed Hetta’s green skirts and golden crown of hair.
Faster they went, louder the sound of the dancer’s heels. Kitty’s cheeks grew warm with exertion, a lock of hair escaping her coif and brushing her face as she was swept down the line of dancers, until she completed the turn and found herself facing Mr. Turner the surgeon.
In her shock, she remained rooted in place for but a brief second. Her astonishment was mirrored upon the young man’s face as he stared at her.
“Miss Phillips,“ he said, his voice filled with surprise. He had taken her hand–there was nothing else for it in this movement of the dance–and they turned about in a circle with the steps.
“Mr. Turner,” she gasped. “I did not know that you were–were here.” She felt helpless indeed; his hold on her hand was now broken, the dancers turning their way down the floor in swift lines.
“I came to visit a friend of mine–a physician–who practices in the village–” he said.
“I am a guest of Miss Harwick’s cousin–” she stammered, at almost the same moment. She was now facing her partner momentarily, the sight of Mr. Turner lost to her. In the distant movement, she could see Hetta’s laughing countenance as she was steered forth in the dance’s embrace by a rustic youth in the garb of a laborer.
She gathered her presence of mind as Mr. Turner appeared again before her in the dance’s swift turns. “Have you been well, sir?” she asked, for want of anything else.
“Quite well,” he answered, handing down his partners in these steps with a swiftness beyond its measure, as Miss Phillips was handed down by each of the gentleman before her. “And your sister?”
“Is well, sir,” she answered, breathless in her movements. “We are extremely grateful for your services on her behalf.”
Mr. Turner was now her partner; and in the fashion of the other dancers, clasped her around the waist and directed her with lively steps through the turn.
Kitty had not danced a waltz but a handful of times. To feel a man’s arm around her waist was as new to her as the rest of this experience. Her heart pounded with a rapid beat exceeding the song’s own, the closeness of his face and figure, the touch of his hand, were sensations unknown to her in any form until now.
They did not speak as he released her. The steps of the reel carried her through the ladies’ procession until she was with her own partner again. The voices around her had become a whirl equal to the dance, a confusion which scattered her thoughts far beyond order.
There was no glimpse to be had of Mr. Turner before her; nor of Hetta, who was rendered invisible by a great many couples hiding her movement with their own. Kitty could not think; she could scarce smile in response to her partner’s kind remarks as he led her through the bridge of the dance.
Five turns to the music for five and twenty couples–then, at once, the musicians ceased playing, as if aware that all had taken their share of the dance. The chords died away with a groan as the partners faced each other again.
With a trembling form, Kitty offered her partner a polite curtsey, then immediately turned away. In the crush of the crowd, she found solace for her confusion of thoughts after the encounter of moments before.
It had never occurred to her
that he had not gone to his friends in Ipswich, but to Northumberland instead. Never would she have believed such an accident possible–and what must he think to encounter her here, at a public dance where she was a stranger to all? Hetta’s mocking words of the gentry among the commoners held a painful sting in her memory, as if her station reproached her for meddling with the pleasures of others whose sphere was not her own.
“Miss Phillips.” The surgeon’s voice was behind her as he made his way through the crowds. She turned towards him, endeavoring to hide her fretful manner.
“I did not wish to sound–” he hesitated. “You must forgive me. I hope that my manner did not suggest that I was sorry to see you.”
“No,” she answered, hasty to cover her doubts by diminishing his own. “I only believed you greatly surprised–as I was.”
They were each gazing at the other without speaking; in this moment, she realized that her appearance must seem to him vastly different than of old. The disarray of her hair and garments from the dance’s exertion, the style of her gown, were not customary–or indeed, appropriate–given the nature of the genteel Miss Phillips with whom he was acquainted.
“Shall you stay long in Warrick?” she asked, after a long minute’s silence.
“I do not know,” he answered. “That is to say–I have not made up my mind what course I shall take in the future.” Something in his manner and voice betrayed a hesitation which increased her discomfort further.
This awkward silence seemed now to possess them both equally. She was aware of a flush in her cheeks which was spreading rapidly the longer she stood before him.
He hesitated. “Would you grant me the honor of the next dance, Miss Phillips?” he asked. “Since we are old acquaintances.”
The desire to accept his hand was great; but it was tempered by something greater in her sense of shame and confusion. Her self-possession had not returned sufficiently for her to meet his face.
“I fear I am keeping you from your friends, sir,” she answered, catching a glimpse of three people who were gazing in the surgeon’s direction with great interest, including his partner from the previous dance. A young girl who possessed a charming smile and many ribbons, she could not help but notice with a deepening sense of mortification.
“They should be happy to make the acquaintance of any associated with Beiberry Mile,” he said. “But again, I wish to know if you are engaged for the next dance.”
She hesitated again. His gaze was fixed upon her so earnestly that she knew it could not be pity or obligation which made him ask. His smile was kind, as if the familiar ease of their friendship in Essex was returning.
“I am not, sir,” she answered. He held out his hand and she placed her own in it.
They spoke but little during the next reel. The touch of his hand, the feel of his coat’s fabric beneath her hand or the closeness of his features did not seem as strange in this second venture, although she experienced the same emotions as before.
They were an arm’s length apart once more, the bridge beneath which other couples danced to form the line again. Kitty looked into his eyes since no speech was possible between them at this moment and found herself lost in this gaze longer than she would wish herself to be.
“Are you enjoying Keats, Miss Phillips?” he asked. He steered her through a turn, her arm linked with his own.
“Yes,” she answered. “It was kind of you to remember–given how greatly our circumstances were altered since we last spoke of it.”
He smiled. “I recall the occasion of its lending perfectly. And I believed,” his smile grew faint, even as he raised his voice above the noise, “that its presence might have the power to cheer you in the midst of your efforts to cheer others.”
The kindness of this remark, along with the tenderness of his countenance, left her without speech or any means of reply except that which was reflected in her own expression.
The dance’s quickness of movement left little chance for conversation apart from these occasions, so they were obliged to silence more often than speech. This suited Miss Phillips best in her present state of mind, for the glance and touch of the surgeon would freshly awaken these strange circumstances for her every few minutes. She did not wish an introduction to his friends–what would they think, to see him acquainted with a woman of spinster status who traveled about England at will and came boldly to a public dance with no native acquaintance?
When it was at an end, she made her escape. A brief curtsey, a murmur of apology as she disengaged her hand from his to avoid further warm pressure from his fingers. She hoped that he would not follow; she did not turn back to ascertain if he was wounded by the manner of her farewell.
Hetta was in the crowd, the well-tailored appearance of her green gown evident in the midst of country frocks. Kitty seized her arm.
“Let us go, Hetta,” she whispered, hastily. “Please, I must go.”
“Are you well, Kitty?” There was concern upon Hetta’s face. “Only a moment ago you were dancing–”
“The carriage, Hetta,” she repeated. “Please, I cannot linger–” From the corner of her eye, she could see Mr. Turner’s approach.
Hetta noticed him, too, for her countenance assumed a polite smile. “Mr. Turner,” she said. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise.” A curtsey followed, in response to his bow.
“Miss Harwick,” he said. “I was not aware that you and Miss Phillips were in the north country.”
“We are staying but a short duration,” said Hetta. “Then returning by way of Hartlepool.”
“It is my good fortune to have seen you,” he said, “since you will be obliged to depart so soon.” His glance traveled between both of them, although Kitty’s best endeavor did not allow her to meet it.
“It is fortunate indeed,” said Hetta. “We must bid you good evening, sir.” There was no further point in conversation, she seemed aware, since Kitty had not spoken again.
He hesitated, lingering a moment. “Good evening, Miss Harwick. Miss Phillips.” He bowed to them. “If I do not again see you, then I wish you a happy journey.” This was carefully spoken with the politeness of a stranger rather than the address of a friend.
“Mr. Turner.” Miss Phillips spoke at this point, curtseying before him. She turned away with Hetta afterwards, aware that her arm trembled in the possession of her friend’s grip.
As they made their way through the crowd of strangers, Kitty did not speak, as if silence would hasten their departure from the curious glances she imagined and the probable speculations of Mr. Turner among his friends. It was only Hetta who ventured to say anything.
“How strange to see someone from Beiberry Mile here! Mr. Turner looked remarkably well, don’t you think?” she asked.
Kitty’s head moved slightly; a movement which was interpreted as an assent.
“I suppose those were his friends standing by,” Hetta murmured. “The girl with them seemed pretty in a rather overdressed fashion. But I suppose she could not help her taste in ribbons and prints.”
“Let us not speak of it anymore, please,” said Kitty, abruptly. “I should never have consented to this, Hetta. It was very silly of me, to be–parading about so, as if I were still a young girl and not a woman aware of how such trivial pleasures might be seen as impropriety.”
To this, Hetta made no reply. Kitty was again silent, her cheeks burning more deeply with each recollection associated with this evening’s excursion.
*****
In the morning, Hetta pleaded a desire to resume their journey rather than linger at Moirlea Hall any longer.
“I find this house far drearier than any lodgings I have ever known in Scotland,” she informed Kitty. “I should fear the house to be possessed by scenes of gothic gloom, except it is boredom which haunts us here instead of specters of unknown purpose.”
Kitty was not amused by this remark. Although she was not cross from last night’s experience, she was depressed by a sense of fatigue a
nd low spirits. “We shall go if you wish,” she answered. “If it will not offend your cousin that we cut our visit short by a day."
"It shall not matter to him what we do," answered Hetta. "I think he little cares whether I go or stay, for he did not care if I came at all. But I shall be genteel upon the matter when I mention it to him."
"I shall pack my trunk myself, for I do not need the maid’s help,” Kitty replied. She rose from her seat at the room's writing table and began gathering her things from its surface.
Had she been younger, she might have suppressed last night’s adventure as a dream-like fog in her mind. But Miss Phillips was old enough and wise enough to know that such reality was inescapable. It did not matter that there was no firm impropriety in the village dance, for it was the knowledge of what her friends would think, of her own sphere of habit, which stung her keenly upon the morrow.
Miss Harwick took leave of her cousin in the main hall of Moirlea with as little passion or feeling as she had greeted him; in turn, he showed no sign of hurt feelings upon his fair cousin's departure. The carriage rolled away from the house which gazed upon its wild splendors, with Kitty's gaze turning back to its view until it disappeared from sight.
Hetta’s chosen route was to return by way of Hartlepool on the sea, a place which was familiar in Kitty’s associations, since Louisa and the children sometimes journeyed there for a few days’ pleasure. Its scenes became familiar to her with an aching association as they neared its countryside, an experience which brought color to her pale cheek again.
“I came here so often, it feels quite as if I should have the children by my side,” she said to Hetta, as they dismounted before the local inn. “They were very fond of this place; we collected shells by the hour upon the shore.” She could recall the damp hem of her skirts, the feel of sand crusted upon her hands and the salt spray burning against her face.
“You showed little inclination for our first route through Leeds and Kirkby,” said Hetta. “I must assume your associations with this part of the country are entirely to the east.”
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