A Buss from Lafayette

  “That, and other ‘slights’ to his ‘brilliance,’ sent Arnold into a royal sulk. Literally,” Uncle Timothy continued. “Eventually, he decided to sell out to the British.”

  I listened, horrified, to how Arnold had asked Washington to make him the commander at West Point, the fort controlling the Hudson River. Then he had given the plans of the fort to the British, so they could have easily conquered it, controlled the river, and cut New England off from the rest of the colonies. If successful, Arnold’s plan would have led to the death of many of his own soldiers.

  “Luckily, the plans never made it to Clinton, the British general. Arnold’s treachery became known to Washington in the nick of time,” Father went on. “They caught and hanged Andre, the British go-between, but Arnold himself escaped. The British eventually gave him a command when they took the war to the South.”

  Uncle Timothy made a face. “So when the traitor Arnold started laying waste to Virginia, Washington sent Lafayette to stop the turncoat, capture him, and hang him. But Lafayette never was able to catch Arnold before the traitor was ordered back to the North.”

  I moved up next to them. Their talk was too interesting to miss, even if it meant leaving my hiding place. To tell the truth, I found myself wanting to learn as much as I could about this Frenchman who had done so much for my country.

  Father said that Lafayette had stayed on in the South with his men. “Then, when the ferocious summer heat in Virginia made many of the New Englanders ready to desert—I am most sorry to say—Lafayette talked them into staying by appealing to their pride, rather than by shooting those who led the revolt, as some other American commanders did. He told them he knew that their task was going to be difficult and dangerous, but that he himself was willing to stay and face whatever came. And they stayed with him. Now, that is no glory seeker; that is merely a young man of most admirable character.”

  Some of the young people on the dance floor whooped as a line of ladies galloped down the room, away from a string of men in pursuit. In and out they wove, back and forth, circling around.

  “You know, Tim, watching these dancers reminds me of when Cornwallis, the British commander in the South, found out that Lafayette was in Virginia and tried to capture him. Lafayette was badly outnumbered, so he kept dancing away from Cornwallis, skittering away time and again, staying just out of reach.”

  “Like a dance? Really, Father?” I asked.

  “A deadly dance, my dear. If Cornwallis had caught up with Lafayette, there would not have been bows and curtsies involved.”

  Uncle Timothy snorted. “Some say Cornwallis was so frustrated that he could not defeat ‘the Boy’—let alone capture him—in Virginia, that he holed up at the town of Yorktown in a kind of a sulk, himself.”

  Father said that Cornwallis later claimed that General Clinton ordered him to go there to fortify a deep water port for the British fleet.

  “I still think he was sulking, however, especially after it became clear that ‘the Boy’ had forces enough to keep him pinned down at Yorktown,” replied my uncle.

  Father chuckled. “Well, whatever Cornwallis was doing, his staying there led to an ignominious defeat.”

  “And an ultimate victory for America,” Uncle Timothy finished triumphantly. “Thank goodness.”

  The lively little orchestra struck up another tune. My uncle listened intently, then held his hand out to me.

  “They are playing ‘The Country Attorney,’ my dear niece. I believe I am obliged to dance this one, as it is in my honor, so to speak.”

  “But I do not know the steps, sir,” I protested.

  “Do not worry, my girl, I do. I have danced it often with my wife. I will tell you what to do.”

  With great reluctance, I followed him onto the dance floor.

  CHAPTER 24

  Uncle Timothy swept me into line with the other girls, and then took his place in the men’s line.

  As I awkwardly followed my uncle’s whispered directions, I wished I could sink right through the floor.

  “The names of some of these dances are really comical,” said Uncle Timothy, a little breathless from the movements of the dance.“‘Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself,’ ‘Drops of Brandy,’ ‘Careless Sally,’ ’What a Beau Your Granny Was.’ Which name is your favorite, Clara?”

  Forgetting for the moment that I was no doubt the clumsiest girl on the dance floor, I grinned at him. “’The Swinish Multitude’ and ‘Peas Upon a Trencher’ are quite funny. I like to picture the young gentlemen here as ‘pigs’ and ‘peas’, then I do not feel so shy around them.”

  When we got back to where my father was standing with Hetty, I looked around and tried to decide which of the gentlemen in the crowd were pigs and which were peas. I was so lost in amusing myself that I failed to notice right away when someone stopped in front of me and bent over in a formal bow.

  When I finally did notice, I realized who was bowing to me, and therefore bowing to Hetty, too, apparently. Dickon Weeks. A Dickon Weeks dressed in far more elegant clothing than I had ever seen him in before. He looked nothing like a penguin, however. Although his shirt, cravat, and vest were white like the other young men’s, his pantaloons were of tan nankeen, and his jacket was a rich green. Even his hair looked different. It was styled in the current fashion, combed down around his face in curls so he looked like a Roman emperor. I had to admit that the style looked better on him than it had on the balding Mr. Townes. Far better. I found myself a bit dazzled by this new, handsomer version of my old tormentor. Reminding myself that he just might be tormenting me in a new way, I tried to hide my admiration, as I joined Hetty in a deep, formal curtsy.

  After we all straightened up, Dickon cleared his throat. “Um, Miss Hargraves, would you do me the honor . . .”

  Before he could finish, Hetty interrupted. “La, sir, I would be delighted to dance with you!”

  She reached out and firmly clamped her hand around his arm. “I thought you would never ask. And I was so hoping you would. But will not someone introduce us?” She gave a sidelong glance at me, a glance that had ever so tiny a drop of venom in it, not to mention a tidbit of triumph.

  “Hetty, may I present Mr. Richard Weeks. Dickon, this is my cousin, Miss Hargraves. Miss Henrietta Hargraves.”

  “But I . . . that is . . . ah . . . yes, it would be an honor to dance with you, Miss Hargraves.” With an oddly apologetic look at me, Dickon led Hetty to the dance floor for the next reel.

  Hetty and Dickon curtsied and bowed to each other and started the figures of the dance. I stood rooted to the floor, watching them put their arms around each other in passing as they did the required turns, take hands as they led up the set, and smile at each other the entire time. I was astonished to find that their apparent enjoyment of the dance and of each other was something I did not like at all. This was definitely a new kind of torment.

  After the dance was over, Dickon escorted Hetty back to my father. Then, to my infinite surprise, the provoking boy bowed to me once again. “Miss Clara Hargraves, will you now do me the honor?” he said.

  As we walked to take our places in the lines, the fiddler announced loudly that the next dance would be “Again, Sweet Richard.”

  I laughed out loud. “Really, Dickon, it is very funny that you have asked me to dance to this tune. You must have an elevated notion of yourself. ‘Sweet Richard,’ indeed!”

  “But I did not know that this piece was going to be played . . .”

  “And your hair, Dickon. What did you do to make it so fashionable?”

  He flushed. “My older sisters got hold of me and insisted on putting it in curl papers.”

  “Really? My aunt did the same to me!”

  He leaned forward and confided that if he were not wearing his older brother’s jacket, he would go outside and stick his head in the watering trough to get rid of the silly curls.

  “Frankly, I would do the same if I could, Dickon,” I said.

  We looked at each oth
er and burst into laughter, which stopped only when the dance began.

  Somehow I managed to do the steps—and in the proper order, too. My excellent memory came to my aid, and I recalled the dancing master’s lessons perfectly. I even found myself enjoying the dance, especially the part in which Dickon and I circled those beside us in our respective lines and then leaned around to peek at each other.

  Who ever would have imagined that dancing with Dickon Weeks would actually be fun? I thought.

  After the final bow and curtsy, however, I discovered that I was dripping with perspiration. “My stepmother would say I am in a state of inelegance,” I said ruefully. “I wish I had a handkerchief to wipe some of it off. Could we please go outside for a moment to cool off?”

  Dickon offered me his arm and out we went through the back door.

  CHAPTER 25

  Once outside, Dickon and I stood in the cool evening air without speaking.

  After several minutes, feeling I had to fill the silence between us, I blurted out, “So how do you like my cousin, Hetty?”

  “She’s pretty enough, I suppose.” Dickon shrugged.

  For a witch, I thought. Still I felt a bit relieved that it did not appear that Dickon had fallen under her spell.

  I waved my hand in front of my face, trying to cool off. “I hate to say that my ‘pretty’ cousin Hetty is right about anything at all, but her silly lace fan is looking as if it is a useful accessory after all.”

  Dickon pulled a fan out of his jacket pocket. It was identical to the one with Lafayette’s portrait that his parents had given to my stepmother.

  “Why, Dickon Weeks! Whatever are you doing with a lady’s fan?” I teased him. “Although I am sure you are far hotter than I, in that elegant cravat and jacket.” I sound a bit too much like Hetty, but at least I am not fluttering my eyelashes, I thought. Or at least not on purpose.

  Dickon handed the fan to me. “Well . . . actually, you can keep it if you like. I, um . . . bought it for you. I knew it was your birthday the other day, but I did not want to give it to you in front of your family—especially Joss.”

  I was stunned into silence for a moment, but finally managed to respond. “Yes, my brother would certainly be amused by the notion of you giving me a birthday present. I am sure we would never hear the end of it.”

  We looked at each other and both laughed nervously.

  “So will you accept it?” Dickon asked.

  “Yes, although perhaps ’twould be best not to let my stepmother know about this right away. She is so very proper she would probably say ‘a lady’ should not accept such a present from ‘a gentleman’ or some such thing. As if you were a gentleman and I a lady!”

  “You look like a lady tonight, Clara. A very pretty lady. Despite all the ‘inelegance.’”

  “You really think so?” For a moment, I could not seem to find my breath. Then, as usual, I relied on a joke to deal with an awkward moment. “In reality, Dickon, I feel like a horse with its mane done up in braids and ribbons for an Independence Day parade in the village.”

  “Clara, where are you?” The sound of Hetty’s voice broke into our conversation, followed by Hetty herself, with Joss loping along behind her.

  I quickly stowed my new fan in my pocket and turned to face my cousin.

  “I declare, it is like an oven in that ballroom! Let us dance the next set out here—the four of us,” Hetty exclaimed.

  Just then, we heard the fiddler announce in the ballroom that the next dance would be a waltz.

  Hetty turned to Dickon. “It is our turn to dance, I believe, Mr. Weeks.”

  Joss reached out and took her hand. “Sorry, Hetty. I am not going to waltz with my sister. It is bad enough to do so with a cousin,” he said, teasingly.

  “Do you know the steps, Dickon?” I asked. “I have a general idea about how to waltz, but I have never actually tried it. I suspect that my stepmother would deem it far too shocking a dance for someone my age.”

  “My older sisters made me learn it, and made me practice it with them, too. So do not worry, Clarie, just follow me,” Dickon said with a playful bow.

  “I shall with great pleasure, sir.” I curtsied, trying to remember how much I had disliked this boy, for how long a time and for so many good reasons. He took my right hand in his left, placed his right hand on the small of my back, and whirled me into the waltz. All that whirling—or something else entirely—made me feel quite dizzy. I could not help but wonder if Dickon felt as dizzy as I did.

  When we finished waltzing and returned inside, something very odd happened. As before, boys kept coming up to speak to Hetty, but many of them would then ask me to dance instead. It was only when I had no dances free that they would direct their invitations to my cousin.

  Hetty did not seem too happy at this new development. She looked so upset that I almost felt sorry for her. But not quite.

  Dickon also looked a bit disgruntled. I noticed he did not dance again. And each time another partner escorted me onto the dance floor, I would see him leaning against the wall like, well, like a wallflower.

  Finally, the last dance was announced—an old tune called “The World Turned Upside Down.” As I went through the figures of the dance—the sets and the crossings and the allemandes—it occurred to me that the song’s title was also a pretty good description of my entire evening. Much to my own amazement, I realized that I had not sat anywhere near the wall during the dancing. Not even once.

  I also realized that I had not thanked Dickon for his gift to me.

  CHAPTER 26

  After we left Perkins Tavern and arrived home, we found that Aunt P. and my stepmother had waited up for us—if the latter’s reclining on the sofa, fanning herself with her Lafayette fan, could be called “up.”

  As soon as we walked into the room, my aunt rushed over to us. “Did you have a simply wonderful time, girls?”

  Hetty smirked. “Yes, Mother. The gentlemen were most attentive.”

  “Of course they were, my dear girl. And you, Niece? Was it as much of a trial as you feared?”

  “Actually, Aunt P., I had an amazingly good time after all.”

  My stepmother struggled to her feet and patted me on the back. “Good for you, Clara. I know how little you wanted to go. Now, both of you girls need to get to bed. It has been a long day for you.”

  Aunt P. hugged her daughter. “Do not forget to brush your hair before you go to sleep. Two hundred strokes, Hetty. Must keep it clean and shiny, after all. Your lovely head of hair is what captures the attention of gentlemen.”

  Two hundred strokes! I thought. Poor Hetty!

  My stepmother looked at me and sighed. “I shall not even ask you to do the same, Clara. I know how much you hate it.”

  “Actually, I was planning to comb it, ma’am. Two hundred strokes at least!” I blurted out. Then without another word, I climbed the stairs, leaving my stepmother looking mystified.

  My cousin, who was to share my bed as usual, followed closely behind me into the bedroom. We helped each other with our gowns and stays—which was a great relief—unpinned our hair, then put on our nightgowns. Finally, we cleaned our teeth with our horseradish root brushes.

  Afterwards, Hetty picked up the hairbrush on my bedside table.

  “It is such a pain, getting a brush through all the knots and curls in my hair,” she said, vigorously brushing her long black hair.

  “I have no curls in mine, but it is a pain nevertheless,” I replied. “But now I have got a new comb, and I do not mind combing my hair with it in the least.” I picked up my lead comb and started to pull it through my hair.

  We worked on our hair in silence for a while. Then I decided to find something out.

  “Why are you so hateful about my hair, Cousin? As long as I can remember, you have teased me about it unmercifully. What did I ever do to you, that you are so mean to me all the time?”

  Hetty took a few more brushstrokes without speaking before saying, “If you must k
now, it is not your hair that offends me. No, not at all. It is what’s under your hair that I take objection to.”

  “Under my hair? What do you mean, Hetty? Do you think I have lice or something? I can assure you that I do not!”

  “No! It is your brain and everyone going on and on about how clever you are. How much you read. How much you know. It is enough to turn my stomach.”

  “You are jealous? Of me? But you have a perfectly good brain, Hetty.”

  “My brain works well enough to know how to flatter boys, but beyond that, my wits are nothing to brag about. I have always envied the way you can talk to adults about so many things.”

  “Yes, I am fine talking to adults, but I am not so very skilled at talking to boys my own age. I envy you that, in a way.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I also envy you your beautiful black hair.”

  We looked at each other, smiling broadly.

  Hetty said, “Well, perhaps we can help each other from now on. Is it a bargain, Cousin?”

  “A bargain indeed,” I agreed, giving her a quick hug. “Now, what is the stroke count on our hair? I have lost track.”

  “I believe we had just reached one hundred and seventy-five, so we are nearly done. That is, if you do actually wish to comb your hair two hundred times.”

  “I actually do. Believe it or not.”

  And counting away, in nearly perfect charity with one another, we brushed and combed our way to bedtime.

  Sunday, June 26, 1825

  How very odd it seemed to be happy in Hetty’s company this morning. My whole family found it quite puzzling to see us friendly towards one another. Indeed, it is still a bit puzzling for me as well, but in a good way.

  Hetty and her parents accompanied us to church, then started for home soon afterwards in a veritable flurry of Sabbath traveling.