But, oh, what it must be like to fall in love at a dance!
Perhaps the power of the story was in the perspective. Maybe Adeline should first notice Aric at a ball, but he doesn’t notice her. She could spend days thinking about him, fantasizing scenarios of meeting him, being courted by him, captivating him.
Hannah hummed aloud unintentionally. No one could have heard her over the music, but her cheeks warmed. She started to walk toward the door for fresh air when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Henry’s brother Simon smiled, his thick lower lip curving more than the upper. “Would you care to dance, Miss Vestal?”
He’d been two years ahead of her in school back in Virginia, but he’d only stayed through the sixth grade. She remembered him being kind but not particularly smart. Since she had to dance with someone, Simon Roberts would make a harmless partner. She accepted the arm he offered. “Yes, thank you.”
As they joined the circle of waiting couples in the center of the room, her gaze fell on Henry who remained near the dance area with his left hand still in his pocket even though there were plenty of young ladies not yet dancing. His light blue eyes shot a contemptuous stare at Simon.
What right have he to be displeased by his brother’s choice of dancing partner? First, he’d asserted himself into her writing process by saying he’d only print her story if he approved of it, and now he scowled at his brother for dancing with her. Though her feet followed the rhythmic steps of the dance and her face offered a friendly smile to her partner, she thought only of Henry’s audacity until the dance was over.
When the song ended with a triple beat from the drum and a soft note fading from the violin, the dancers applauded each other and the musicians. With a quick nod of thanks to Simon, Hannah left the dancers to their sweaty circle and made haste to the door.
The cool air lapped the heat from her skin. Her gloved hand hovered over the wooden rail as she descended the schoolhouse steps. As soon as the door closed and she was alone, she removed her gloves and loosened her starched collar. Without pins, there was nothing she could do to keep the stiff curls off her forehead. Tomorrow she’d pay in blemishes for tonight’s primping.
And all for what? One dance.
She wasn’t here for herself but for her sister. Doris was getting the adolescence Hannah never had. Perhaps as a bystander in Doris’s upbringing she could experience enough youthful preening and romantic angst to write young love adequately. Perhaps not.
Maybe her story wasn’t meant to be a love story at all but only a tale of missed experience and distant observation.
The music pulsed to life again inside the schoolhouse, and the door rattled as the dancers bobbed and the crowd shifted. Hannah ambled around the side of the building to where the school desks and chairs had been banished. The chairs were too low to the sandy ground to keep her full skirt out of the sand while sitting, so she hoisted herself upon a desk.
Her new shoes dangled above the earth. As she leaned her head back to take in the stars and the bright oval-shaped moon, footsteps swished over the sand and gravel at the front of the building. She held still, hoping not to draw attention to the restful place she’d found.
A shadow rounded the schoolhouse. “Did my brother’s poor dancing chase you away?”
She didn’t have to see his face to know Henry was smirking, but she flicked a glance at him anyway. “Not at all. Simon is quite amiable.”
He slid a finger along his collar and opened the knot in his cravat. “Stuffy in there.”
“Indeed.” She returned her attention to the stars above, hoping Henry would take the hint and go away. He didn’t move. Why wasn’t he walking away?
After a quiet moment, he took a step closer. “I like your curls.”
She pushed her hair off her forehead. “Doris insisted. She’s quite girlish. It’s nonsensical.”
“It’s pretty. You look like your mother.”
At that, her gaze peeled away from the sky. “Thank you.”
Just as the kindness of his comment sank in and almost softened her heart toward him, he asked. “Are you interested in Simon?”
She was not, but if she were, it wouldn’t be any of Henry’s business. Tonight, many couples would dance who had no romantic interest in each other. How was her dance with Simon any different? “Why do you ask?”
“I saw you together. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
His assumptions made her jaw clench. If she were interested in his brother, would he object to them courting as he’d objected to printing her manuscript? First her book wasn’t good enough for his ink, and now she wasn’t good enough for his brother. She narrowed her eyes at him. “I enjoy dancing, and Simon was polite enough to ask. I won’t let your brother court me, if that is what you’re worried about.”
His arrogant brow creased. “Did I offend you?”
She scooted off the desktop. “I should go back inside. I’m here as Doris’s chaperone.”
“She’s in a chatty huddle with Sarah Ashton and Roseanna Colburn. The reverend hasn’t taken his eyes off them.” He slid both hands into his pockets. “How have I offended you?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are you upset with me?”
Though it might have been the moonlight affecting his expression, his eyes held sincerity. Could he be unaware of his haughty demeanor and prickly tone? Perhaps Prince Aric would also benefit from such a flaw, however, a lack of charm might make Adeline less attracted to him.
Maybe Henry’s disinclination to polish his harsh opinions had more to do with sincerity than pride. She wouldn’t find out by walking away, and she owed it to her writing to investigate. She leaned back against the desk and crossed her arms over her bodice. “You said I couldn’t write a story worth printing.”
He drew both hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms, reflecting her posture. “I explained that was a business decision. My father taught me long ago not to print every manuscript presented to me. There’s no reason for you to be angry with me. If it were your press, wouldn’t you use discernment in deciding what to print?”
“You judged my writing unprintable without reading it.”
Someone stepped outside. They both glanced toward the front of the building. A shadow lingered at the front of the building but no one came into view.
When Henry looked back at her, he spoke with a quieter voice. “I said I would read it and make my decision then. I was simply letting you know the potential outcome. Isn’t that better than if I had pretended to anticipate enjoying your story only to refuse to print it?”
She sucked in an incredulous breath. “See, you assume my story won’t be enjoyable. It’s your prejudice that offends me.”
“My honesty offends you.”
“You’re conceited.”
“You’re illogical.”
She jabbed the air with a finger. “I will shape my story into such a powerfully moving novel, you will choke on your tears when you read it.”
Henry drew his head back and widened his eyes. She lowered her pointing finger, unsure of why she’d become so angry. Folding her hands loosely, she glanced around to see if anyone else had witnessed her outburst. They were alone unless someone was around the corner on the schoolhouse steps.
She focused on the shadowed ground around her feet. “I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize for defending your work.” His voice had lost its edge. “When you seemed ashamed of your writing, I didn’t want to read it, but this passion has awakened my curiosity.”
She studied his face. What he lacked in charm, he made up for in honesty. Perhaps this was the fairness Olivia had spoken of. If he took his work so seriously as to judge what he printed, maybe she could trust him with her story. Still, the thought of someone besides Olivia reading her work brought a sickly ache to her belly. “This is unnerving for me.”
He leaned in a degree. “What is?”
Though no one else was near, she lowered
her voice to barely above a whisper. “My mother was the only person I shared my writing with. After she died, Olivia understood how I felt. She helped my family, and I trusted her. Now my father says he wants to read my story, so I’m finishing it. Olivia suggested I have it printed, and that meant coming to you. I only came to you because I trust her. I know you have standards for your press, and you know nothing about my writing, but I don’t know you. Not really. Not well enough to be comfortable with you reading my story and making judgments.”
Henry gazed down at her for a quiet moment. He uncrossed his arms and rubbed the palm of his scarred hand with the thumb of the other. “I suppose you miss your mother very much.”
She’d grown used to receiving the look of sympathy but didn’t expect it from him. Not now. “Yes, I do.”
“I can only imagine what that must have been like. I was very sorry for you and your family when she died. Still am.”
“That is kind of you.”
“Has the grief lessened with time?”
“A little. The sting has worn off, but the ache is persistent.”
He looked down at his left hand. “I know the feeling.”
“I miss her. That’s part of the reason I write. Characters are good company.”
His half-smiling half-scowling expression returned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Never mind.” She began to cross her arms again, ready for another argument, but he caught her fingertips in his hand. Inside the schoolhouse, the muffled drum counted off a beat and a slower song began.
His face changed and he lifted her hand. “Would you care to dance, Miss Vestal?”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to go back inside yet.”
“I too prefer the space and fresh air out here.” His grin reached his eyes. “It’s tradition that everyone must dance at least once to show a good spirit. I have a good spirit but no dance partner.”
She smiled and mocked a quick curtsy. “I wouldn’t want to hinder your efforts in upholding the tradition, sir.”
He chuckled. “Then dance with me.” Still grinning, he placed his left hand on the small of her back and held her hand with his right. “You shall not regret it.”
She lightly touched his shoulder, keeping her elbow up, as he led the dance across the sandy soil. Stray blades of grass tickled her skin as her skirts swished over the ground. Hopeful starlight shone around them, and the music spilled through the schoolhouse wall. With each pulse of the third beat, their feet rotated the box step movement. Gravel crackled underfoot, but the uneven turf was no match for his confidence.
Perhaps there was more to Henry Roberts than she’d realized.
All at once, her story flooded her mind. The solution to her plot problem was not in how Adeline met Prince Aric, but in why. Details of the air, the sky, the scents of ocean and earth swam through her imagination. Her characters’ faces were as crisp as anyone she knew, as were their hopes and needs and wounds.
Everything she’d been trying to force in her story fell away as she danced with Henry in the darkened schoolyard. It was as if the sudden reality of this new experience permeated the fictional world that lurked beneath the surface of her mind, making both equally real to her at once. One reality she could touch and smell, but the other might dissolve into nothingness if she didn’t concentrate on memorizing every detail. Why hadn’t she brought a pencil and paper?
If she kept Adeline and Aric’s faces before her mind and the fulfillment in their hearts as they came together, she would remember it all when she was able to write later tonight. While she focused on her characters’ world, the energy of the surrounding reality slipped and took the joy of the fictive dream with it. Somehow she had to concentrate on both the world around her and the world inside her mind.
Listening to the music, their footsteps, and Henry’s breath as he led the dance, she absorbed the warmth of his hand on her back, the sureness in his movements, and the palpable tension between them. Her eyes closed and she envisioned Adeline and Aric meeting, loving, hating, needing, protecting themselves and each other, fighting, giving up, and finally giving in.
It was all there somehow mixed in the reality flowing around her and the story coming to life within her. It was as though none of it existed but all of it had always been, and somehow it was because of Henry Roberts.
* * *
Henry held Hannah’s soft hand in his and led their moonlit dance across the sandy yard. As he stepped in time with the music that bled through the north wall of the schoolhouse, his mother’s dance instructions echoed in his mind. Keep your partner close enough to feel your movement but not so close as to seem improper. That hadn’t been a problem when he was being taught to dance in the parlor of their home and his sisters had been his partners. This was different.
Hannah smelled like flowers and soap, and her body heat warmed his palm. Could she feel the difference in his hand—nubs instead of the last two fingers? Was she thinking about it? Repulsed by it?
She was a delicate young woman, lonely and overworked, who missed her mother. She was also a passionate writer who bubbled with ideas and insecurities. And for some reason, she’d agreed to dance with him.
She’d also danced with his half-wit of a brother, so maybe she simply enjoyed dancing, just as she’d claimed.
Maybe this meant nothing to her. And it shouldn’t mean anything to him no matter if he felt more hope and happiness than he had in years. Feelings couldn’t be trusted. That’s why God gave man logic to corral wayward feelings.
Still, he felt something irrepressible.
Why should he feel anything? She was only allowing him one dance. Even if she learned to keep her illogical jabbering to herself, he wouldn’t ask her for more than this one dance. He couldn’t. If he tried to get to know her, he wouldn’t like her. If he found himself loving her, he’d only hurt her. Women were too sensitive, too irrational.
The unease and longing he felt was rooted in pity, perhaps even sympathy. He’d witnessed her at her mother’s burial years ago and still felt the weight of tragedy when he saw her. She deserved to be loved by someone who would protect her and not ruin her. He was too harsh for such a fragile creature.
Her hand was warm in his, her skin smooth, unscarred. She was far too sweet to find him anything but caustic. He didn’t need the scrutiny of another woman. He had tried before. They were all the same. Smiles and shy glances led to demands and crying.
And then there were the demands he placed on himself for what he could not give a woman. The unreliable strength in his scarred hand wouldn’t allow him to build or farm or hunt the way the other men did.
The song ended, and their feet stilled on the sandy soil. He loosened his grip, but Hannah didn’t let go of his hand. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He hadn’t realized she’d closed them. She hadn’t simply danced with him; she had trusted him.
The hand he’d held against her back hovered there, barely touching the fabric of her dress. He didn’t want to trap her but felt less inclined to pull away with every second she stayed near. Why was this private and beautiful woman not retreating from him?
There were certainly more handsome men, more prosperous. He was an impaired printer with eight ink stained fingers. He had smirked at her trade requests and scoffed at her talent, yet she hadn’t fled. Even now, without music or provocation, she stayed close and had yet to let go.
He hoped she never would.
He studied her starlit features from her high cheekbones to the shadowed dip above her mouth, trying to memorize every line and curve in case he never saw her like this again. After a long moment, he lowered their joined hands. “Thank you, Miss Vestal.”
Her words flowed out on a breath. “It was my pleasure.”
Her gaze flicked to his mouth, but he denied the urge to wet his lips. Every fiber in his being yearned to kiss her, but he had no right. Though attracted, even intrigued by Hannah Vestal, he didn’t love her enough to offer the kind of commit
ment she would expect after a kiss. However, he did love her enough as a neighbor—and maybe even as a friend—to protect her from himself.
He watched her lips as he pulled away. She gave no hint of wanting to be kissed, but her unmoving stance seemed like an invitation. Though he should have moved back, his body refused. How had she entranced him with a look?
The schoolhouse door opened again. Voices and lamplight flooded out. Hannah promptly let go of his hand and clasped her wrists in front of her. “Good evening, Mr. Roberts,” she said as she turned and strode back into the schoolhouse.
Chapter Ten
Hannah set her pencil on the kitchen table and rubbed the cramp that had formed between her thumb and forefinger. Two hours straight of writing was good for the soul but bad for the hands. She leaned her head against the top slat of the ladder-back chair and closed her fatigue-laden eyes. It was too early in the afternoon to be this tired, but that’s what she got for staying up late to write every night for a week.
The twins’ muffled voices mixed with her father’s and Doris’s outside as they approached the house. Hannah hid her pages under a tea towel and tied on her apron. Her father opened the back door and her three sisters stepped into the mudroom. The quiet kitchen filled with the cacophony of family.
“Those are my shells!” Minnie yelled, as she grabbed at the seashells in Ida’s cupped hands.
“Now, girls, we gathered plenty for you to share,” Christopher said in an authoritative but kind tone. “Doris, help them take the shells to the parlor, please.”
Hannah followed her squabbling sisters. She knelt on the parlor rug and picked dried seagrass out of Minnie’s curls. “How was your time at the beach?”
The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set Page 49