Love in Three-Quarter Time

by Dina Sleiman

  Pride? But wasn’t he the humblest man in the county? Willing to risk even his fortune to do right? Earlier in the same chapter, it had said, “Better is a little with righteousness than great revenues without right.” That’s precisely the life he had chosen. He would set an example for his neighbors. He would show them how an upstanding man should live. He would…and that’s when it hit him. He would do it all in his own strength with no help whatsoever from God.

  Robbie bent over, clasped his head between his knees, and shook it back and forth. How could he have been so stupid?

  His workers had known better. They had petitioned the Lord when he would not. And the farm had thrived. But concerning Constance, he’d been too stubborn, too proud to pray for help. He had not so much as asked for guidance.

  He lifted his head and gazed out the window toward White Willow Hall.

  Perhaps he’d picked up that message from his father, a successful man who asserted he had no need of God. Somehow, despite accepting Jesus as his savior, Robbie managed to hold to this misconception in a desire to please his long lost father. To show him that he was a man, and that he could make it on his own. That his plan to free the slaves could work with no help from anyone—leastwise God.

  Not anymore.

  If any chance remained, he must seize it. He would petition God for guidance and mercy. Ask him to reconcile this situation with Constance, to redeem his life from the pit. But he would not stubbornly insist on his own way this time. If God led him in a different direction, he would willingly obey.

  He had grown weary of mucking up everything. He was exhausted from not being enough of a man. Never strong enough, brave enough, smart enough to direct matters according to his plan. He recalled a Scripture Lorimer often touted. “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

  Why had Robbie waited all this time, until everything fell apart, to turn to the Lord and beg his grace? Pride, he supposed. Thinking he could do it on his own. Wanting to prove his way right. But if it was indeed right, then it was God’s way, not his, and he had nothing to prove at all.

  The door creaked open, and a dark head poked into the room.

  “Jimbo?”

  “Don’t mean to interrupt. But I had a mighty strong feelin’ I should check on you, Mr. Robbie.”

  “That’s perfect. Gather the workers. Tell them to quit early today. Tonight we hold a prayer meeting, Lorimer style.” Robbie shook the Bible toward him. “Ask Marcus to prepare a short sermon.”

  “You mind if I be askin’ why?” Jimbo grinned. “Not that we need a reason to hold us some church.”

  “Because, my friend, I am a weak man in dire need of guidance and prayers.”

  “Then our prayers done been answered already.”

  As Jimbo left to fetch the others, Robbie bowed his head and meditated upon his heavenly Father. Upon his love and sacrifice. Upon his awesome strength. Robbie could hardly fathom that he had thought for a single moment he could make it on his own. He was the weakest of all men, but in that weakness, Christ could be strong.

  Lightness and joy overtook him as he prayed.

  * * *

  Constance sank into the thick mattress and smashed the pillow over her face. The world went dark and muffled, precisely how she had preferred it this past week. Beyond the sanctuary of the pillow, the entire household buzzed with excitement and preparations, marching forward toward tomorrow’s big event like a battalion of soldiers who were merciless toward anyone they trod underfoot.

  The ball would occur, whether or not she accepted the fact. Whether or not she could face Robbie in their matching finery. Whether or not she could bear to waltz in his arms without fainting at his feet once again.

  Your father’s death was all my fault.

  The words bounced through her head for the millionth time.

  At least by now, she’d managed to attach some meaning to them. No wonder Robbie had pushed her away all these years. In retrospect, he had little choice. He was correct, their chance at happiness died that night along with her father.

  She had managed to let go of her anger and give way to her true sorrow and pain after she returned to White Willow. “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” She had certainly done her share of mourning over the past days, but the comfort had yet to arrive.

  Could she ever forgive Robbie? Maybe. Would she have made the same decisions in his place? Possibly. But still, she couldn’t fathom launching forward into a happy life with the man who had wrought such destruction upon her family.

  What of her family? She couldn’t wed herself to Robbie without telling them. They could have him locked away for good. He did not deserve that. He had merely acted upon his conscience to defend the downtrodden of this world.

  And what of the slaves? Her mother might yet choose to go after them.

  Yes, Constance did understand why Robbie kept the secret from her all this time. Until she joined him in his cause, he truly had no option.

  Her heart clutched.

  Oh, and the horrible things she’d said to him, the pain that had flashed over his face. Robbie was indeed a man, the best sort of man. How could she have ever suggested otherwise? She could only blame her fiery Gingersnap temper and her knowledge that a similar comment cut him with such precision five years ago.

  These same thoughts had plagued her again and again all week, twisting and turning in her mind. But always she came to the same conclusion. Forgiveness aside, she could never marry the man who annihilated her family.

  Nor could she live without him.

  No right answer existed.

  Constance was doomed. How she wished she could run away, but that wasn’t a possibility either. Not now when her goals fluttered within her grasp. Just this one last ball, this one last dance, and then they would start their little school in Charlottesville and Constance could put Robbie out of her mind for good.

  Perhaps she could yet direct her heart to Lorimer, wonderful man that he was. How she wished she loved him. How much simpler her life would be.

  She lifted the pillow a crack to torture herself further with the sight of the dusky rose gown hanging from the armoire. The loveliest frock she’d ever laid eyes upon, yet hauntingly similar to the dress she’d worn upon that fateful night.

  Pressing the pillow to her face once again, she abandoned herself to tears. Where did the never-ending wellspring come from?

  A heavy weight of exhaustion fell over her, a weight to which she’d grown accustomed. All she could do was pray. Cry her heart out before the Lord yet again, to beg him, please, to somehow, someway, help her out of this impossible situation.

  God, give me a picture for the future. Lead me. Guide me. Help me to know your truth, she prayed. She focused her mind upon the eyes of Jesus. Warm, accepting, forgiving. And as she dwelt upon them, a vision formed in her head.

  * * *

  Light and free and happy at last, Constance glided upon the checkered marble floor of the Beaumont ballroom. Looking down, she delighted at the sight of her new rose-colored gown with its exquisite details and long, sheer sleeves.

  She turned her gaze to the man who brought such buoyancy to her spirit. Jesus Christ himself. Her precious savior. Joy welled from deep in her chest and spread across her face as her Lord led her through the intricate steps of the waltz. She gave way to every subtle nudge and tug from his hand, offering herself entirely to him. He spun her and caught her and dipped her to the floor, and she trusted him to the core of her being.

  A sense of oneness overtook her. She no longer could discern where she ended and he began. Perfect unity. Intimate connection. She pressed her head into his mighty shoulder and sighed.

  Blissful and lost within the rhythmic flow, she prayed the dance would never end.

  As they continued weaving their way about the room, a shift occurred, but for a moment she did not know what it was. Then realization dawned. The white linen robe had turned to black vel
vet. Hesitant, she pulled back.

  She now danced in the arms of Robert Montgomery, and although he did not fill her with quite the same degree of divine ecstasy, she felt right and safe within his arms.

  She twisted about, searching for Jesus. Where had he gone?

  He stood to the side, applauding their performance, a smile of approval upon his timeless face. When he spoke, the words did not come from outside of her, but rather resonated deep within.

  “Trust him. Love him. Let Robbie lead you to wholeness.”

  * * *

  Constance bolted upright in her bed. The vision still hovered before her eyes, so real. The words reverberated in her head. Trust him. Love him. Let Robbie lead you to wholeness.

  Had she fallen asleep? Did God still speak in visions and dreams so? He had throughout the Bible. She recalled the story of Jacob’s ladder from church. Still, this occurrence might have been only wishful thinking. She knew so little of such matters.

  The task of forgiveness seemed too huge, insurmountable. Did she possess the faith to undertake it? And what would it require, truly?

  The answer struck her. To forgive Robbie, who’d done far worse than she had and who was much more culpable for her father’s death, she’d have to finally and completely forgive herself.

  Could she? She’d forgiven Sissy, and it felt so right. But to let herself go scot free…that seemed too easy, too selfish. She wondered if Robbie might somehow lead her to the healing such a decision would require.

  One way or the other, the day of the ball would arrive tomorrow. No more crying, no more wallowing. She pushed herself out of her cushioned cocoon with resolve. She must prepare to face her future with dignity.

  Whatever that future might hold.

  And she knew precisely where she would begin.

  * * *

  Constance knocked at the entrance to the study. Both Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont sat inside.

  “Come in, dear,” Mrs. Beaumont called. “I do so hope your headache has gone away. We need you in top form tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m beginning to feel much better, thank you.”

  “Join us, dearest. Do sit.” Mr. Beaumont waved to an armchair.

  Constance arranged her skirts and settled herself. “I shall keep this brief. I’m afraid I have a confession to make.” She kept going before she lost her nerve. “I’ve deceived thee from the beginning. I’ve never truly lived in England.” Switching to plain English, she said, “The accent is false. I was just so desperate for your acceptance. I thought you might enjoy the remembrance of your home. Surely you understand now that you’ve met my family. I couldn’t let them down.”

  They both burst into laughter. Mrs. Beaumont spoke first. “Oh, dear, we’ve known for months. Charming as it is at times, you’ve never properly maintained it. One moment it’s aye, thee, and thou, and the next it’s plain old yes and you. It’s been the source of much amusement among the family.”

  “You…but…” Her mind went blank.

  “Don’t give it another thought, Miss Cavendish.” Mr. Beaumont brushed his hand in dismissal. “You won us over long ago with your kind heart and exceptional skills. I’m but thankful that you’ve been weaning yourself of it lately.”

  So easy? The issue that had plagued her for months, resolved in a moment of laughter and dismissal? The truth had set her free. If only matters could be resolved so simply with Robbie.

  CHAPTER 35

  Lorimer stood back in the shadowed alcove created by the curving stairway, watching guests enter and mingle in their excessive finery. He perused his own cream-and-buff ensemble he’d borrowed from Robbie yet again. The jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, intensifying the pinched sensation the showy display caused him. The trousers were short, but his worn, old Hessian boots covered them effectively.

  “I am made all things to all men…,” he reminded himself. But tonight, for once, winning souls did not take precedence in his thoughts. In fact, for the past two weeks, he’d dwelt on little other than Constance Cavendish.

  The girl surrounded him like some sort of specter. Her sweet, freckled face hovered over him throughout the day, and again when he fell asleep. Lorimer had prided himself in being impervious to such emotions. He only needed God, not people, and certainly not human love. Pride. Perhaps therein lay the problem. These days, he felt all too human and weak.

  He scouted the entryway as jewel-encrusted women fluttered fans, and pompous men strutted like peacocks with their chests lifted high. Was his sort of pride any less obnoxious?

  So far this evening, he hadn’t spotted Constance and Robbie together. She flitted about like a rose petal caught in the wind from one prospective client to another. Robbie hung back in his own corner in the parlor.

  Lorimer had offered Robbie his last chance. If the man had not yet claimed Constance, Lorimer would put an end to this and win her for himself. God had not specifically told him to step in. He had, in fact, been quiet on the issue other than that initial sense that Constance was meant for Robbie. But if the man couldn’t find the strength to forgive, then Lorimer saw no other recourse considering his own state of mind.

  He hadn’t given much thought to the future. Perhaps Constance would follow him in his work. Or wait for him patiently in a little cabin. Perhaps God might free him to start a church in town. He’d never wanted to before, but if his desires changed…No wonder Paul declared it better to remain single.

  All Lorimer knew for certain was that his heart had set itself on that woman, despite his best intentions.

  As he strolled through the parlor, sounds of the musicians warming up next door met his ears. Not long now until the dancing began. Maybe he could claim Constance for a set, if only to feel her in his arms and stare deep into her eyes one last time.

  “Lorimer! Lorimer!” Constance hurried toward him in a flurry of skirts, and the room lit with sunset fire. His heart glowed along with it. She took his two hands in hers, which were encased in short silk gloves beneath her see-through sleeves.

  He hungered for the touch of her skin, but he would bide his time. He still needed proof that the dunderhead Robbie had botched matters again.

  “I’ve something I need to discuss with you.”

  He noted she spoke plain English with not a hint of her false accent.

  She tucked her hand by his elbow. “May we step onto the verandah for a quick moment before the dancing begins?”

  He quirked his brow. “Is that advisable?”

  “Forget the wagging tongues. I need you. Please.”

  He saw pleading in her sparkling brown eyes, but he saw more as well. He saw pain and fear. “Of course. Come on.” He led her to the verandah.

  She sat herself upon the rail and collapsed against the support beam. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she moaned.

  “Do what, Constance?” He laid his hand on her arm.

  “Dance with Robbie. We’ve fought again. Worse than ever. Oh Lorimer, it was terrible. I fear Robbie was right all along. There’s too much between us to overcome. More than I ever suspected.” A first tear rolled down one cheek.

  He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed her face. Was she free of Robbie for good? Perhaps not. She didn’t appear recovered from him. Quite the opposite. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “The story is too long and upsetting. I’ll ruin my face for the big dance. I must lead the waltz with Robbie.” She clutched his hand in hers again. “Please just pray for me. Pray for wisdom and for strength. Pray that I’ll know the right thing to do.”

  He studied her features. The tight set of her jaw, the pout of her lower lip, the haunted expression in her eyes. Constance still had feelings for Robbie. But she had affection for Lorimer too. He knew she did. She trusted him. Felt safe with him and went to him in her time of need.

  Not Robert Montgomery.

  For now, he had no choice but to pray as she asked. Lorimer bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, thank you for my dear sister i
n Christ. You know the thoughts you have toward her, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give her an expected end. Lead her into your plans, Lord. Lead her and Robbie into your healing and forgiveness. Make your paths straight before them. Give her strength and peace tonight as they dance together, and speak to her your truth.”

  As Constance sat with eyes closed, basking in the peace of God surrounding their little space, Lorimer added beneath his breath, “Please give me strength to handle whatever this night brings, and if you see fit, Father, bring her back to me.”

  Somehow he suspected he needed the prayer more than Constance.

  Her coppery lashes fluttered as her eyes opened. “Lorimer, do you believe that God still speaks in visions and dreams?”

  “I believe God speaks however he wishes, although it hasn’t happened to me.”

  “How do you think one might discern if a vision is from the Lord?”

  Where was she going with this line of questioning? Lorimer almost feared to answer. “I suppose you know by the sense of peace and rightness in your heart. That’s how I discern when God speaks to me. It must work in a similar manner.”

  A smile brightened her face. “Thank you. As I suspected.”

  “But what does this have to do with Robbie and the dance?”

  She took a deep breath. “Robbie revealed more to me about the night my father died. His own role in it. I shouldn’t speak of it here and now, but it’s been difficult for me to accept. It’s horrible. Just horrible.”

  Lorimer knew he should keep his silence—honor the instruction God had given him to the end—but the words burst from him before he could contain them. “You have another option, you know. Marry me! Put all of this far behind you.”

  Constance’s pretty bow mouth opened to an ‘o’ as she gaped at him. “Marry you? I thought you had given me up.”

  “I was a fool. Marry me.” His chest clenched.