by Dina Sleiman
“I have two words for thee, Mrs. Beaumont.” Constance took care to flatten the “a” in the word have. “Ballet training. Molyneux teaches only the dance steps themselves. But in France, noblewomen study ballet forms to build a dancer from the inside out, taking them to the very heights of fine society. Under my expert tutelage your daughters will eat and breathe grace, and before long they shall be executing even the simplest country dances with the flair of European ballerinas.” Constance couldn’t say for certain where her confident speech had come from, except that she believed every word to be true.
“European ballerinas, you say.” Mrs. Beaumont fluttered her hand. “But I had my heart set on Molyneux, a true dance master.”
“He’s not coming. About that he was most adamant. Thou should receive a letter soon bidding thee and the girls to travel to Richmond for instruction.”
“Richmond! That uppity Frenchman dares to bid me hither and thither? Me, the wife of one of the wealthiest plantation owners in Albemarle County? The nerve of that man. I think not.”
She paused a moment, studying Constance once again as she stood clutching her reticule. “Do have a seat, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont gestured to a straight backed wooden chair to her right.
Constance would have sighed with relief if she had dared.
“You have the most charming accent by the way. Yorkshire, isn’t it? I do so miss England. Why I’d be tempted to hire you merely to hear it for the next few months. But I cannot make this decision alone. Samson! Samson!” she called.
The butler entered the room. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Fetch Mr. Beaumont and the girls at once. And send Martha with tea and biscuits while we wait. I have so many questions for Miss Cavendish.” He left, and Mrs. Beaumont turned back to Constance. “For example, how have you come to need such employment? As I recall, your family was quite well-to-do, and your mother mentioned you were the belle of the ball in your own day.”
So she hadn’t heard.
The butterflies ceased their dance in Constance’s stomach. She had practiced an answer for this question that would be truthful but vague. “I am afraid my father passed on, leaving our estate in utter disarray. We never did recover. Even after we sold the plantation, most of the funds went to his creditors.” Creditors, gambling buddies, people he’d swindled. Whichever way, the money had vanished.
“I’m so sorry to hear it, Miss Cavendish. That must have been hard on your sweet mother. Perhaps she and your sisters can come for a visit if you stay. But first things first. We shall see you dance and assess from there.”
Evidently the Yorkshire accent worked its magic just as mother suspected. Now to prove herself as a dancer.
* * *
An hour later, with some bracing tea in her system and satin slippers on her feet, Constance stood toe to toe with Mr. Beaumont, about to demonstrate a gavotte for the family. Molly, a younger version of her mother, waited at the fortepiano, ready to accompany them. Her twin, Dolly, sat by Mrs. Beaumont to the side of the huge ballroom, eager to observe the performance.
As Molly struck the first chords, Constance nodded to the dashing Mr. Beaumont. His brown eyes twinkled beneath his gray hair. He bowed, and she curtseyed to him. Then he swiveled a quarter turn and offered his hand in the air for Constance to rest hers upon.
As they proceeded through the gliding steps, Constance added her own special flair as she’d learned so well from Mademoiselle Cartier. The extra light brush of her toe, the gentle slope of her pinky finger, the tilt of her head to accent each pas de bourrée.
As she released Mr. Beaumont’s hand to perform a circular pattern, she passed close enough by the women to catch snippets of their whispers.
“So high on her toes.”
“Lovely posture.”
And even, “How does she achieve that shape with her hands?”
She joined Mr. Beaumont for a spin in the center. A few inches taller than most women, Constance considered herself the perfect height for dancing. She could see into her partner’s eyes without craning her neck and fit nicely into any hold. In fact, she and the small Mr. Beaumont were of a similar stature.
Molly played with skill, and before long, Constance lost herself in the lovely strains. She no longer labored over technique and steps, but floated through the dance upon a cloud of music, entering the magic of the moment. The room turned a blur of color and light, gold walls swirling with garnet curtains and blue horizon.
Time slipped away, and she danced.
As she took her final curtsey, boisterous applause erupted from the room, waking her from the trance. Even Mr. Beaumont next to her clapped and called out, “Bravo!”
Mrs. Beaumont rushed to Constance and took her hands. “Your mother spoke the truth in her letter, my dear. No doubt you had all the young bucks of Prince George County under your spell.”
The girls joined the group and bounced clumsily about them. “We must hire her, Mummy.”
“Oh, please.”
Constance must learn to tell them apart. For now they would be the girl in the pink and the girl in the blue.
Mr. Beaumont gave a final clap. “I’ve never seen such divine dancing.”
“Now, now.” Mrs. Beaumont fluttered her hand and giggled. “Girls, do settle. Mr. Beaumont, I agree she is divine. But good dancing does not necessarily translate to good teaching, and I retain my reservation about hiring a female. I say we give her a week’s trial. Today is Saturday. Next week we shall hold a small party for a few neighbors to see what she’s done with the girls. Then we shall decide.”
One week to whip these gawky, heavy-footed young ladies into shape. They seemed pleasant enough to work with but moved like farm girls from what she’d seen thus far. “Oh Mrs. Beaumont, I shall do my utmost. But ballet training requires months, years even, to take effect.”
“Well, then we must hurry, for I’ve already scheduled their coming out ball for August, just a few weeks after their sixteenth birthday. It’s to be accompanied by a picnic, an all-day event. We’ll have guests from several counties.”
However could Constance get these girls ready for a party in one week? This was April! How could she prepare them to enter society in a mere four months? The schedule would not allow her as much time as she wished to make acquaintances in Charlottesville either.
She simply must rise to the occasion and work with all due haste. If only she could be delivered from the distracting presence of one Mr. Robert Montgomery, she might find a way to manage.
* * *
Thankfully, being so far in the country, the Beaumonts did not dress for dinner. They’d invited her to eat with the family along with the overseer, and she would need her one evening gown next week. For now she’d changed into a fresh, white muslin dress with a scooped neck. Years ago, Mother had added a thick lavender sash to lower the waist nearer to the latest style, but then the trend had changed to a waist just beneath the bust this season and to a higher, wider skirt this dress could never attain. Constance surrendered. The dress would simply have to suffice.
Taking one last moment to run her hand along the textured black-and-white pattern of the wallpaper in her appointed bedchamber, Constance sighed in delight. Mrs. Beaumont had insisted on housing her more as a guest than a servant for the sake of her mother. And if Constance didn’t know better, she would think she had finally come home. So much space, open and bright from the massive windows.
Stepping into the expansive hallway, Constance stretched her arms wide and breathed in the scent of magnolias. For a moment all her issues with high society and plantation life vaporized into the air as she danced her way along the polished hardwood floor. Her steps melted into the soothing three-four cadence of the waltz. She spun around the corner toward the mammoth curving stairwell.
And there crashed against a solid object in the center of the hallway.
She let out a most unladylike shriek, echoing back to her hoyden days. Still dizzy from spinning and reeling from t
he collision, she couldn’t make out the obstruction blocking her path. Strong hands grasped her forearms and steadied her before she toppled. The feel of them brought comfort and warmth, as if Prince Charming had come to whisk her away to the ball. The last time she experienced such a sensation was when…She shoved the thought away.
But as the haze cleared, she looked up into a pair of stunning blue eyes precisely as she had on that fateful evening long ago. “You!”
A sardonic smile lit Robbie’s face. “You. I heard from the twins that a Miss Cavendish had come from Richmond. I thought surely it must be someone else.” He chuckled, although not entirely with mirth. A smear of dirt accented the hollow under his chiseled cheekbone. Once upon a time, Constance would have brushed it away.
He raked grimy fingers through his disheveled black hair, still as silky and waving as she remembered it. “But of course it is you. Who else would come barging around a corner so, as if the world must part way like the Red Sea to let her eminence pass?”
“I…I…” She did not know what to say to that. Gingersnap, belle of the ball, deserved such an indictment. But Constance had changed.
He laughed again, this time more of a snicker. “I thought as much. Not all of us stand at your beck and call, Madam Temptress. Your spell over me was broken long ago.”
How dare he stand in this hall and mock her? He was the one who abandoned her—in her hour of need, no less. Seething anger seeped through her veins. That emotion, she could manage. Constance found her words. “Broken along with my bank account?”
“If only you knew.” He shook his head.
In his eyes she spied…sadness? Disappointment? She did not know what to make of that. “I’m sorry to intrude upon you, sir. This is a shock to both of us, I assure you. I assumed you would be at your own plantation—or gone as usual.”
“I recently returned. And I’m staying here as you can see. Mother wrote that a dance master would be coming, but I assumed him a man and had no idea it might be an old…acquaintance. I should know by now to correspond with Mary about such issues. Mother would leave her head on the nightstand if not for Mary’s charts and schedules.”
Constance’s thoughts, so recently recovered from confusion, fell into disarray once again at his nonsensical tirade. “Mary?”
His snicker made way to a sneer and an actual laugh of derision. “Of course, a slave would be too stupid and ignorant to run a household, let alone pen a blasted chart. Comforting to know that some things never change, your majesty.” He swooped into a mocking bow complete with European hand flourish. If only he had a hat and gloves, the portrait would be complete.
Constance managed a curt, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” But in the back of her mind she wondered. She had thought Sissy’s remarkable intelligence some sort of rare exception. It seemed here at White Willow that slaves were treated in an entirely different manner. Constance shook off her rambling thoughts. “And all of this is beside the point.”
“Never mind. Rest assured I will remove myself as soon as possible. You obviously recall that I spend little time here.” With that he turned on his heel and disappeared into a nearby bedchamber.
“Oh!” Her Gingersnap temper rose to alarming levels. Her face in that moment no doubt matched the fire of her hair. But she was not Gingersnap, the hotheaded hoyden, any longer. No matter what Robert Montgomery might think. No matter the memories he stirred in her. Memories and emotions best left alone to die once and for all. She was Constance Cavendish, British dance instructor. Stiff upper lip and all that.
Counting to ten with deep inhalations, her temperature cooled. The raging heat on her face dissipated. She could do this. She would. She’d been a respectable working woman for years now. One Mr. Robert Montgomery would not disrupt her goals.
Only then did she pause to further consider his disheveled appearance—the dirt beneath his fingernails, the coarse linen work shirt, and the plain brown breeches worn over an old pair of Hessian boots.
A slave who could read and write and ruled the household. Another who spoke with the elegance of a British butler. A handsome, blue-eyed gentleman farmer grimy from the fields. And such bitterness from that same man who had cast her aside when she needed him most. White Willow Hall brimmed with disparities.
At least this trip would not prove to be the same boring routine of Richmond. But she would remain focused. Teach the Beaumont girls to dance. Earn a reputation throughout the area. And earn her family a new lease on life.
Somehow she must convince Robbie not to poison the others against her. She would speak with him after dinner. Although she had put her flirtatious past far behind her, surely she could dredge up enough charm to manage that.
CHAPTER 6
Constance suppressed a gasp. The Robbie who swept into dinner ten minutes late looked nothing like the rumpled specimen she’d met in the hallway. Dressed in a proper dark blue waistcoat with pressed white trousers, he indeed appeared every inch the dashing gentleman of her childhood dreams. A warm flush rose to her face as he brushed his lips across his mother’s rosy cheek.
“So sorry to be late.” With a wink to the table at large, he settled himself into the chair across from his mother and to the left of his stepfather. Thankfully, Constance remained separated from him by his sisters, where she could watch him without being obvious. He flashed his charming grin to the young ladies with a quick, “Evening,” and Constance felt as if the smile dripped over to her as well, tickling her own lips into a grin. He shook out his napkin with a crisp flick of his wrist and settled it across his lap with perfect decorum.
Constance lifted her fan from the table and waved it against the rising heat before it showed upon her cheeks. But then, realizing the possible flirtatious impression, she cast her glance to the rotund, middle-aged overseer across from her.
Past the enormous ham garnished with apples, she watched the man turn as red as she must appear. Mr. Percy cleared his throat and pulled on his collar, but she merely smiled, laid down her fan, and took another taste of her creamy peanut soup. Unable to resist the briefest Gingersnap moment, she topped off the exchange with a quick eyelash flutter before directing her gaze to her host and hostess.
“Nothing new about you being late, Robbie. Working hard as usual, I’m sure.” Mr. Beaumont’s tone seemed pleasant enough, although Constance wondered if there was ever tension between him and his stepson.
“Yes, working hard. We should have the southern lot ready by midweek, and then I’ll be on my way to Princess Anne County for a while.”
“But—” Mrs. Beaumont seemed as if she might protest until Mr. Beaumont interrupted.
“Since we’re all here now, let’s say grace, darling.” He linked hands with his wife and stepson, and they all followed suit.
Constance managed to hold back a giggle when Mr. Percy took her hand across the table as if it were a snake that might strike him.
“Dear heavenly Father,” Mr. Beaumont began, “thank you for this bounty and this land in our fresh new country. Thank you for the many opportunities with which you have blessed us and the tobacco plant that grows tall and strong in this rich soil. May we always be mindful of your presence in our lives. May we be good stewards of this gift and the dear servants you’ve entrusted in our care. Be with us as we go through our evening and guide our conversations this night. In your holy, mighty name we pray, amen.”
The simple prayer—so personal yet so eloquent—shook Constance to her core. May we always be mindful of your presence in our lives. Surely she was mindful of God’s presence, that hovering shadow always watching over her shoulder, awaiting her next failure, and plotting her imminent demise. Somehow, she thought, that wasn’t what Mr. Beaumont meant at all.
She was about to mention the lovely prayer, but then reminded herself to don her accent, which brought to mind the “guide our conversations this night” line from the petition. This overwhelmed her with guilt at her deception, so she bit her lip and uttered n
ot a word.
“Back to what you were saying, darling,” Mr. Beaumont prompted his wife.
“Yes, of course.” She batted her lashes over blue eyes a few times, as if to recall her thoughts. “Robbie, you can’t simply dash off. I need you to assist Miss Cavendish as she instructs your sisters. They must see the dances performed properly by experts, and you must help them practice the patterns for foursomes. On this I must insist. Joshua, please serve the ham.” She turned to the liveried servant and smiled, closing the subject.
“Mother, we never discussed this. How is it that you’ve planned my spring without my permission? I’m not a schoolboy anymore. I have my own affairs to attend.” Robbie held up his plate for the proffered ham.
Mrs. Beaumont affixed her face with an unnatural degree of blankness. “I’m certain we did. Where is Martha with those potatoes?”
Robbie shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Mother.”
“Don’t you think we need Robert’s help, Miss Cavendish?”
Constance nearly dropped her plate as Joshua placed a large slice of ham upon it, but she caught it in time. She looked to Robbie, then to Mrs. Beaumont, and back again. “I dare say it is advantageous to have an expert male about for partnering, but I should hate to keep thee from thy appointments, Mr. Montgomery.”
The sharp upraise of Robbie’s eyebrow told her something was amiss. Then she realized. In all the confusion in the hallway, she hadn’t used her accent. Even if she had, Robbie would have recalled her typical speech of five years ago.
She beseeched him with her eyes, hoping they still retained a hint of their flirtatious magic. If ever you loved me, she silently shouted from their depths, if ever you held a shred of true affection for me, please do not reveal my secret.
He held his own silence and relaxed his features.
“Nonsense. Robbie’s appointments are never ending. Life cannot be put on hold for them. We are preparing for the most important evening of your sisters’ lives, Robert James Montgomery. Their skill on the dance floor shall pave the way for their place in society, and you will play your part.” Mrs. Beaumont dug into her ham, no longer acting the empty-headed coquette but shifting to stern matriarch.