The center of the hall was cleared now, the tabletops and trestles stacked neatly along the walls, the benches lined up in rows in front of them. Bottles of wine and beer, decanters of whisky, fruit and cheese, loaves of bread and pies were laid out on the high table for people to help themselves during the long evening; there would be no supper served tonight. The army of men and women who had taken it on themselves to clean up the bulk of the mess in the kitchen returned to the hall, gay and laughing from their shared work, and ready for the pleasure they had earned.
The musicians, having eaten and rested, brought out wind and stringed instruments and began playing dance music. Couples sprang up and stood facing each other in two lines. Dominic, his narrative ended and his audience dispersed, strode over to me and held out his right arm. “We must open the ball by leading the reel,” he said. He was flushed and relaxed, but he seemed sober enough, although I had seen him refill his glass several times.
My extreme anger had left me clearheaded. If I spoiled Dominic’s return home and the Midsummer festival, I would characterize myself forever as ungracious, a termagant, not worthy to be Dominic’s wife. My reputation would be sunk, and no apology, no explanation, no act of atonement could ever raise it. Staring straight ahead through Dominic’s chest, I took his arm and stood with him at the head of the long double row of couples. Dominic thought the steps to me a few beats ahead of time so I was able to complete the first figure without difficulty. After that it was all repetition. Grasping his gloved left hand, I held it or lifted it as needed. The action of our dance appeared natural to observers, with no hint that I was doing more of the work than the other women.
There was little communion between us now other than that generated by our touching hands, but our connection had in some way intensified with my anger. Dominic was serene and confident; my fury seemed to amuse him or at least not to bother him. He did not respond in kind, but absorbed my wrath as if it were an energizing force, dancing with his feline grace, tall and lithe, slightly aloof. I felt the eyes of the entire room on us, many of them envious of me, a few of Dominic. Not wishing to come off badly in the comparison, I forced myself to pay attention to the dance, to be a competent partner to Dominic if I could not aspire to his elegance.
We finished the reel, and continued with a couples dance like a waltz. Again Dominic guided me mentally through the steps. Unlike the reel, the waltz allows for, even encourages, conversation between partners, but I remained icily silent, ignoring Dominic’s thoughts, nodding or shaking my head at direct questions, staring around me as we danced instead of looking at him or pressing close to him, as other women did with their men. His height gave me an excuse, as I was not tall enough to rest my head on his shoulder, and leaning against his chest would make real dancing impossible. In my rage I held myself stiffly, never relaxing into his embrace or synchronizing with his movements. Dominic, although noticing something wasn’t right, was too caught up in the festival mood to examine me closely.
At the end of our two dances, full of food and out of breath, I asked to sit down. Dominic led me back to my seat and held out his arm to Stefan. “Now it’s your turn,” he said, smiling. Stefan sat for a moment, worried by my cold look that something of our earlier conversation had come out during the waltz. Since Dominic did not appear to be angry, Stefan had no reason to shield himself from his lover’s thoughts, and when he saw that I had not broken my promise to him he stood up eagerly at Dominic’s invitation. He was still a boy in many ways, able to enjoy the moment and ignore unsolved problems.
I watched them as they danced. Whatever Dominic might guess of Stefan’s revelations, he showed no sign of disappointment, and the young man clearly felt no fear of his older lover. He danced in Dominic’s arms, smiling up at him shyly but happily. As I had had to do, Stefan held and lifted Dominic’s hand when the formation of the dance called for it, but it came easily to them both, a natural and fluid adjustment to an awkward situation that they accepted without complaint. Putting his right arm around Stefan’s thin shoulders, gazing down into his face with a loving look, Dominic had the contented air of a man at peace with himself and the world.
Josh led Eleonora back to her seat and bowed jauntily to me. “May I have the pleasure of a dance with Lady Amalie,” he asked, “before she is ’Gravina Aranyi and forbidden?” Whether from Eleonora or from his own talent as seer, Josh had already found out the household’s name for me.
I shook my head as I stood up, trying for lightness, achieving only petulance. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not really even Lady Amalie.”
“Hush!” Josh said with a laugh as we touched hands lightly for a circle dance. “Don’t demolish everyone’s romantic ideas on Midsummer.” There was little chance of serious conversation in this sex-segregated concentric formation of twirling and clapping, the kind of dance I had learned at La Sapienza. At the beginning, Josh probed lightly at my outer layer of consciousness, as one expects from a seer, and tolerates, however much one may wish for privacy.
We were parted into our separate circles but I felt his eyes on me, and his mind in mine, throughout the long dance. When it ended and he led me back to the high table, he was more thoughtful. “Don’t be too hard on Dominic,” Josh said. “I can’t swear I wouldn’t have done the same, in his situation.” He knew he had hit a nerve, didn’t wait for my response of look or word or thought, but strode across the floor to secure Naomi the witch from her last partner.
The dancing went on for hours, with periodic short breaks as much for us as for the musicians, during which times we drank and snacked on the supper buffet, rested and relieved ourselves. Unlike our little makeshift trio at La Sapienza, these were professional musicians; the band had enough members that they could play continuously for long periods, one or two at a time taking a breather, the rest of them able to carry on seamlessly. In the early stages everybody participated, children and old people, heavily pregnant wives and mothers just up from childbed. The tunes were for circle dances and reels, or formal couples dances requiring only the chaste touches of held hands, or at waist and shoulder, although closer contact, if desired, was not prohibited.
After my dance with Josh, Sir Nicholas Galloway, emboldened by whiskey, approached. “How about it?” he boomed, making a turn with him sound like the demand to go upstairs in the brothel after the madam has been paid at the door.
I had no reason to refuse, so I stood again, let him put his arm around me and lead me out. He was a forthright man and self-assured, more comfortable alone with me than in the company of the sedate Ormondes and the reserved Lady Ladakh. Because of the festival, he made no pretense of being uninterested in me, sexually or otherwise, his hand ascending from my waist to squeeze the side of my breast, or descending to slide over my buttocks, as the steps of the dance provided opportunities. He was as free with his crypta as his hands, getting answers to some of his questions without having to ask aloud, a method that in his case I found preferable.
At one point, thinking to win a respite from the groping, I mentioned Cassandra Galloway, whom I had known at La Sapienza. “Is she a relative?”
“My sister,” Sir Nicholas bellowed, laughing and patting my rear affectionately as if I had made a weak joke. “Glad to hear news of her, of course, but we don’t need to gossip like old wives tonight.” He turned me around so that we were facing the same direction for the promenade while his hand crept up slowly under my arm, fingers spread to envelop my breast without being too obvious. We continued the dance in silence.
“Margrave Aranyi,” Sir Nicholas roared in my ear toward the end, making me jump, “is doing well for himself.” He was staring at Stefan, who was dancing, not with Dominic, but with Alaric, the Master Falconer, but Sir Nicholas made it clear through his thoughts that he was speaking about me, of my impending marriage and motherhood.
Absurdly, I felt the need to demur. “It’s a girl, you know.” It was the only one, of all my shortcomings, that I didn’t mind admitting,
since it was the only one I didn’t feel was a deficiency.
“So Margrave Aranyi said. There’s nothing wrong with girls, as long as a man has an heir. Next time, perhaps, you’ll have a son.”
“Perhaps.” Now was not the time to say I had no intention of having more than one child.
Sir Nicholas ran his hand over my velvet-sheathed rear and cupped a cheek. “A gifted wife is worth as much as land or family name, especially for someone like Margrave Aranyi, who doesn’t lack for either. Now that you’re in whelp, he has everything a man could want. I don’t suppose,” he bawled in his version of a suggestive whisper, “that you’re free tonight.”
The funny thing was I might have been tempted, if he wasn’t so loud, if he would promise to speak only telepathically—and if I wasn’t secretly hoping for Dominic to claim me despite my rebuffs. There was something appealing about the man, his friendliness, his open appreciation and his robust virility. All the fondling hadn’t produced the usual nausea in me, just a slight queasiness that could be mistaken for excitement. He was about my age, attractive and youthful, his inner eyelids glinting like tarnished silver in the torchlight, although his gift was not especially strong. But he was gifted, and at this large gathering that counted for a lot. “No,” I answered his question with just the right amount of regret, “I’m not.”
After Sir Nicholas relinquished me, Sir Karl Ormonde was waiting his turn. He, too, was curious to see what had brought Margrave Aranyi to marriage so late in life, although he was subtler than Sir Nicholas. Other than holding hands for the dance, he touched me only with his mind, and he did that so well that I was surprised to find myself opening up to him, disclosing my Terran origins and some of the details of my rendezvous with Dominic at La Sapienza—even a glimpse of our time in the travelers’ shelter. I wanted to kick myself for not shielding my thoughts more prudently.
“Nonsense.” Sir Karl refuted my silent castigation, smiling with closed lips. It was not a warm smile. “Better to get the truth out in the open from the start. A marriage can’t thrive on secrets.” Unlike Sir Nicholas, he was appalled at what he had uncovered. When the dance ended he dropped my hand abruptly. With deliberate cruelty he said, “I’m sure you’ll understand if I say that this sudden marriage of Margrave Aranyi’s comes as a surprise. Stefan has been strictly brought up, and he’s always been a credit to us. He’s of age now, and must make his own decisions, but I promise you—” He scowled at me with his cold, contemptuous face. “—as his father, I won’t allow him to be shoved aside or insulted.”
Sir Karl turned his back before I could think of a reply, searched protectively for his son, saw him soliciting Katrina for the next dance, and looked over to me again, comparing Dominic’s two companions. His parting thought was merely that it was a shame, if only to be expected, that a man of Margrave Aranyi’s reputation was marrying someone less than respectable.
Back in my seat, I pulled the whiskey decanter toward me, then remembered in time and pushed it away. Lucretia, Lady Ladakh, perspiring from the dancing, commiserated. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, everyone around you indulging, and not being able to. I sometimes think I weaned Drusilla too soon, couldn’t go through one more festival on water.”
Lucretia had a kind face, with large, widely-spaced gray eyes, and a warmth of character hidden at first by Christian rectitude. I was tempted to confide in her. “Especially after being put in my place by Sir Karl Ormonde,” I said.
“Oh, that old hypocrite.” Lucretia dismissed her neighbor with a sneer. “May the Threefold God forgive me for my lack of charity. But honestly, Mistress, you mustn’t trouble yourself over such pettiness. His only quarrel with you is that Margrave Aranyi is marrying you instead of one of his daughters. No woman would be acceptable to him. He thought Stefan was moving in as companion with a lifelong bachelor.” She watched as the dance ended and Dominic bowed to his partner. “Be glad the son doesn’t take after the father.” She read my confusion and clarified. “Both. Your lord husband is a better man than his father was, and his companion is more virtuous at his tender age than his own father will ever be.”
A man hovered at her elbow, Marcin, a tenant farmer from the Aranyi lands, a recent bridegroom himself, married to my maid, Katrina. I thought he was offering Lady Ladakh something, more food or drink, but he was asking her to dance. Lucretia apologized for leaving me, smiled into the man’s anxious face and stood up. “It’s Midsummer,” she said over her shoulder as he whirled her away. “It only comes once a year.”
I was seeing my first genuine mid-season festival, the uninhibited celebration of the mountain people, not the sheltered, convent-school atmosphere of a seminary. At La Sapienza we had all been telepaths; at Aranyi we were few. Here on this one night we were expected to accept the desires and the touch of anyone, not just of other gifted people. Many of the ’Graven used alcohol to dull their sensitivities and to get in the mood if they could not achieve it by crypta alone, but that way was not available to me. I had recognized Sir Nicholas’s offer for the rarity it was, the opportunity to spend this night with a gifted partner, even as I had felt compelled to reject it. His proposal had failed more by being premature than from any other reason.
Clara, Lady Galloway, sank down beside me, fanning herself with a napkin and reaching for a bottle. She favored me with a brilliant smile, poured herself a glass of red wine, knocked it back in one great swallow, and said, “It’s my first chance in years, neither breeding nor nursing.” She refilled her glass, sipped it, and remarked, obviously picking up on my reflections, “I’m sorry you didn’t hook up with my Nicholas.”
After the fiasco of my botched companionship with Alicia and Tomasz at La Sapienza, I was alert to the possibilities of her meaning. “Sorry?” I asked.
“It’s a relief when your husband chooses someone you can actually talk to. You’ll see, once you’re married.”
Like Stefan. To Clara I said, “But I thought these festivals were just for one night.”
Clara studied me more closely. “You are a stranger, aren’t you!” she said. “Sir Karl Ormonde has been maintaining to anyone who’d listen that you’re Terran, but I wouldn’t believe fire is hot on his word.” Her voice was a rich alto, harsh with scorn when she spoke of Stefan’s father, otherwise lilting and captivating as she explained the nature of Eclipsian marriage and festival nights. “The thought that your spouse secretly lusts after someone very different from yourself can be quite mortifying. Watching Nicholas get all hot and bothered by an attractive, gifted, intelligent woman like you—” And older, she was thinking, but had not yet drunk so much that she would say it aloud. “—is very reassuring.”
I caught more of the thoughts behind her words. She was praising herself as much as me with her description, implying that if I was all these things, so was she. Which, of course, she was. She was not beautiful by Eclipsian standards, but she radiated a foxy sensuality at odds with the cool elegance of her tall, lean body and narrow, handsome face, a juxtaposition that Sir Nicholas, like most men, found irresistible. Her amber eyes glowed with acumen; her milky inner eyelids were but an ineffective camouflage for the strong gift beneath. Clara acknowledged my appraisal with a smile and a nod, a moment of mutual admiration that went to my head like a shot of the forbidden whiskey, with the same elevation of my dejected mood.
Gratitude made me careless. “I’m sorry, too,” I said, in answer to her earlier regret about Sir Nicholas. “It’s just that—” That what? What could I say that would not offend?
Clara shook her head. “I warned Nicholas that Margrave Aranyi would require your company tonight, betrothal or no, after being so long parted. But my husband had his eye on you from the start, and he’s the sort of man who has to find things out for himself.” She lifted her glass. “To Mistress Amalie, wherever you’re from. The wives of perceptive husbands salute you.”
Alaric, the Master Falconer, was bowing and extending his hand as Clara drank her toast. The man’s perfect profi
le and equally impeccable manners struck her receptive mind with a wallop. She set down her empty glass and stood up in one quick motion, excused herself to me and headed back to the dance floor.
With Lady Galloway’s defection I was left on my own. Every member of our party at the high table was dancing with someone from the household or a trooper from the Aranyi lands. These gentry and minor nobility from the outskirts of Aranyi were like one large, extended family, with years of friendship behind them, and had undoubtedly explored all the possible interconnections at previous festivals. They had no interest in each other this night, once the requirements of civility had been met, and I had already turned down Sir Nicholas, the one man amongst them likely to pursue me. If I wanted to restrict myself to my own kind, nobody could object, but I would sit out most of the dances and only earn myself a reputation for snobbishness.
When Berend looked my way I smiled and nodded, standing up and stepping into his arms for a more energetic version of the earlier waltz. Berend was a graceful dancer, delighted to be the first of the household to partner the prospective Lady Aranyi. Blossoming under the balm of his elation, I relaxed and gave myself over to the festival. Berend twirled me and dipped me skillfully, gradually losing his formality as he saw my growing pleasure in the dance. When the music ended he embraced me, pressing himself against me and stealing a kiss. But he did not presume. He had bowed and moved away to find another partner before the touch of his lips had really registered.
After that I never missed a dance except by choice. Once I had shown myself willing with Berend, just about every man in the household, and many of Dominic’s troops, male and female, decided to try their chances. Nobody was forbidden to anyone on this night, other than father and daughter, mother and son. Opening my mind further, I found, as no doubt most ’Graven had in their turn, that I could feed off the others, almost become drunk myself, simply by lowering my mental shields, allowing in a light, one-way flow of emotion from those around me. It was briefly exhilarating—dancing with abandon, desired but safe, protected from unwanted propositions by Dominic’s presence and my status as his betrothed.
Wedding Page 11