Love in Three-Quarter Time (17 page)

In that moment it all became clear. The truth stood out in crystal sharp relief from the morass of lies she'd carried with her for years. Sissy was not to blame. Sissy had no choice.

“He loved you, Miss Ginger. And he was a good daddy, I know that. But I couldn't stay there one more day.”

Papa had been the villain all along.

CHAPTER 24

Sissy motioned for Constance to sit on the dirt in front of the rounded hut covered with dried rushes. Constance was thankful she'd worn her sturdy green dress and boots for the travel as she lowered herself and tucked her feet behind her.

Her thoughts churned with all she had learned that day, and her stomach churned to match. A heaviness pressed against her chest. To think that her father…Still she could not fathom it. How utterly horrible.

Sissy disappeared inside the dark hut and reemerged carrying two bowls and thick sticks. She sat cross-legged next to Constance and handed her a bowl filled with dry grains.

“We grind them, like this.” Sissy demonstrated, rolling the stick between her hands.

Constance's eyes grew wide with wonder.

“This is what womenfolk do here. You don't want the tribe to think you're lazy. You ain't the master no more. Besides, you always did want to try bein' an Indian. So here's your chance.”

Constance picked up the stick and mimicked Sissy's motions. Attempting to escape the pit of her dark thoughts, she said, “May I wear a baby on my back?”

Sissy's smile spread wide, her white teeth flashing, as she too recalled their childhood play.

“So are you happy here, Sissy?”

“I'm loved. Accepted. I have my family. And I enjoy the life. It's hard work, but it's honest work. Everything inside that little hut is mine to own. And best of all, I'm free.”

Constance didn't argue the point, although Sissy's freedom remained tenuous at best.

“But is it safe?” Wind teased the red curls around Constance's face.

“Is anyone safe?” Sissy frowned. “Of course the whites would like to see us gone. But there's fightin' no matter where you travel. White with Indians. British with American. American with French. There's no escapin' it. This world don't make no sense leastwise how you cut it. Folks is folks and hate is hate. And I say there's too much of it.”

“Agreed.”

Several tall, strong braves strode past.

“How did you know we were coming?” Constance asked while she continued grinding.

“The scouts.”

As Constance suspected. At least Sissy was well guarded. Constance surveyed the cheerful village brimming with color and life. Dried gourds, blankets, women spinning twine, children running about and squealing with laughter. A pleasant aroma of wood, smoke, and leather permeated the place.

But to think of all Sissy had gone through to get here. Her stomach churned some more. “I'll work together with Mr. Lorimer to see if I can get emancipation papers to you. The estate was dissolved for debts, but because you all were gone, I don't think anyone bothered with your ownership. I imagine Mother still holds the legal rights. Who else is here besides you, James, and Red Bird?”

Tears misted Sissy's eyes. “Y-you'd do that for us, Miss Ginger?”

Constance stopped grinding to lay her pale hand over Sissy's darker one. “Of course I would.” It felt so good to forgive Sissy everything, though how she should feel toward her father, toward herself in respect to all this, she had no idea.

“There's about a dozen of us here. The rest gone north to Ohio or Canada.”

“Well, let's make a list before I go. It's the least I can do. This will be one parting gift to make up to you what little I can. For…you know…everything.” Constance could not bear to put into words the devastating evils perpetrated against Sissy.

“In that case, I reckon I have a gift for you too.” Sissy ducked into a neighboring hut, and Red Bird peeked from the doorway along with a little brown-skinned boy half her size.

Constance couldn't wrap her mind around the thought of her father hurting Sissy. Did memories of him haunt her still? She wouldn't ask, but she would continue praying for her dear friend, for her safety and for her emotional wounds to heal.

Sissy came out into the sunshine grinning and holding a brown baby strapped to a board. “This here is Little Squirrel, for now at least. That was Bear Paw with Red Bird. He's the shy one.” She gestured to the baby. “Let's get you hooked up like you always dreamed, Miss Ginger.”

Constance pushed aside the ugliness she had discovered that day and found herself giggling as Sissy attached the squalling infant to her back. Then they dashed off together across the stream and into the trees, just because it seemed like the perfect thing to do.

* * *

Robbie slammed his open palm into the wainscoting over the fireplace, sending the decorations rumbling along the mantle. “You what?”

“I sent Constance to Richmond with Lorimer to fetch her family. Do settle, dear. Such temperamental displays are not at all becoming. You may play in the mud during the day all you like, but when you come to my home for dinner, I expect you to behave like a gentleman.” Mother flicked open her fan and fluttered it before her as she shot him a look of censure over the lace.

How could the woman possibly turn this around on him? He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, hoping to relieve the pressure and blot out his mother's smug face in one deft move. With no success, he pulled at his cravat, but neither did that relieve the strangling sensation about his throat. “I thought we were in agreement upon this. Our entire mission was to keep them apart.”

“That was before the fiasco at Monticello, darling. I realized I had been keeping Miss Cavendish away from the wrong young man. You need this week to recover yourself, although you are doing no good job of it at the moment.”

Robbie pounded his fist several times against the granite around the grate. “I said I would sleep at my own plantation. There was no need to send her away with that man.”

“Yet here you are tonight. Lorimer is as trustworthy as they come. And other than that rather comical performance at dinner, I've seen nothing between Lorimer and Miss Cavendish but devoted friendship. You are the one I'm concerned about. Your state of mind is not as it should be. And Miss Cavendish looked no better last I saw her.”

Mother had every reason to be concerned. He'd barely slept the last two nights, barely eaten since he'd once again tasted her lips. Now this! He might never get past it. But he would not admit as much. “I'll be fine, Mother.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Tell me you sent a chaperone, at the very least.”

“Of course I did. Martha's with them, and the entire Cavendish clan will be along for the return trip. Now take a moment to compose yourself before dinner.” She stood and swept from the room into the hall.

Robbie rammed open the back door of their casual sitting room that led to the terrace beyond. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stormed into the yard, hoping the fresh air and sunshine might do him some good. But all he could think was that the very breath of life had been stolen from him. That his sunshine had set, never to rise again.

In fact, his sunshine rode in a wagon at this very moment, traipsing off to Richmond with his worst adversary.

No, that wasn't fair. Lorimer had been nothing but a friend for years. He paused to consider what Lorimer himself might advise in this situation. No doubt he would recommend Robbie seek God for guidance. That he listen to the voice of the Holy Spirit.

But how could one trouble the maker of the universe over one's love life, or lack thereof, of all things?

Robbie had learned much from Lorimer, and he had embraced Christ as a savior. It seemed the least he could do. He would serve God, do his duty, accept his monumental sacrifice, and bother him no further. Years back he had thought of God only as a divine progenitor, Christ a fine teacher and paragon of morality. Robbie had come a long way.

He looked at the sun again. It was glowing in radiant splendor. He could never hope to change the angle of its rays by as much as a single degree, though his life might depend upon it. God was indeed a marvelous creator, as Lorimer taught.

But Robbie remained responsible for his own affairs. Affairs he had botched to the point he might never recover.

The fire of the sun's glow brought Constance's face before him once again. He swiped away the image. He could never have her. He'd ruined everything long ago. She would never forgive him. She could never trust him. He had to release her.

* * *

Constance cuddled between Sissy and Martha on a split log, watching the massive bonfire flicker against the black sky. Lorimer led his frontier Bible meeting in a circle late at night, Indian style. As much as Constance loved to listen to his rousing sermons, this evening her head drooped onto the shoulder of her childhood playmate. Lorimer's deep voice blended into the chirp of crickets and the croak of bullfrogs, at one with the night around him.

Quiet satisfaction washed over Constance even as the soothing campfire scent wafted about her. Ensconced between her friends, listening to the calming tones of the man she admired, for once all seemed right in the world. Her tiredness sprang from a day well spent. A day of healing and refreshment. She would not dwell on thoughts of her father in this moment. Rather she would do her utmost to relinquish the matter to God. For no amount of mental anguish would serve to change the past one bit.

Constance took Sissy's hand in her own and clung tight. Her heart melted into the forest surrounding her, in unison with the earth and all its inhabitants.

What Constance considered hard work—embroidery, teaching, peeling potatoes—would all count as leisure activities here in the village where they must carve out an existence from the unyielding mountain around them.

She spent far too much of her life on unimportant pursuits—clothing, furnishings, expensive food items, impressing the social elite. Yet never had she enjoyed a magical day like today or such generous company or a dinner like the thick, robust venison stew. Her face felt gritty from dirt, her hem might never recover. But Constance was happy.

Full of joy and at peace, for once.

Lorimer offered a closing prayer. They had already sung 'til their throats went raspy before the sermon. Constance expected the evening to conclude.

Instead, several men pulled out their drums covered with animal hides and began a resounding beat as others took up a haunting chant. Some older women stood and began to dance. Constance spotted Trader Jack's wife, Dancing Waters, right away, pouring through her movements like a cool mountain stream over rocks. Swirling and stomping her feet into the earth with unbelievable grace and flair.

Jack had been correct. No one could teach that. Such skill came from within, flowing from deep in the soul as if the kingdom of God that dwelt in the heart of man might be released through fingertips and toes.

Martha stood and joined them. Constance giggled and nudged Sissy. She should have known Martha would attempt as much after watching her stamp and spin to the gospel songs. Martha began to twirl and pound her feet in rhythm, whooping against the poignant chant.

“What are they saying?” Constance asked Sissy in a whisper.

“Praise to the great spirit. The great spirit dancing upon the water and the wind. There is none like him. There is none like him.” Sissy closed her eyes and swayed to the beat. “Praise to the one who gave his son. The one who gave his only son that we might live. There is none like him. There is none like him. Praise to the God of all, who makes the heavens and paints the skies. There is none like him. There is none like him.”

“It's so lovely. I didn't know.” Constance had thought it a heathen song, but in truth it was a chant of worship to the Father God.

With her eyes still closed, Sissy stood and raised her arms over her head, allowing one to slide down the other, undulating like the flames before them.

Constance remained seated, suddenly alone and cold before the roaring fire. Her feet twitched to move as well, her hands to sway and her head to roll in circles to the intoxicating beat.

But she was a sophisticated woman, of the upper society despite her recent fall. Trained by the best instructors no matter her hoyden days, reared in the finest home even if she'd tumbled from grace. Still, she wanted nothing more than to dance wild and free before a blazing fire.

Lorimer and a group of braves joined in with the exuberant display, hopping and turning as well. Unable to resist another minute, Constance tugged off her boots. She untied her bonnet, tossed it to the ground, and stripped away her infernal gloves. She stood in her stocking feet.

And Constance danced. She whipped in a frenzy of passionate praise, firelight glimmering against her. She spun and stamped and leapt, letting the driving rhythm settle deep into her being.

Her hair tumbled free from its pins and floated about her, in the wind like a river of liquid fire, just as Robbie had said. And she didn't care. She didn't care one whit. She just drove her feet harder into the earth, longing to feel its pulse against her skin. Spiraling again and again with palms lifted to the heavens, stars above her shimmering like diamonds against black velvet.

Bliss!

On this night, she'd been set ablaze by God, maker of the universe. Overwhelming love for him poured from her up into the night sky.

CHAPTER 25

Constance replayed the memory of the previous evening in her mind.

“Where are you, Miss Cavendish?” Lorimer bumped her with his hip upon the seat of the wagon as they rolled down the trail toward Richmond.

Constance sighed. “Mmm. Still back at the campfire. What a night that was.” Martha must have thought so as well. After staying up reading 'til the crack of dawn, she now napped in the back of the rig.

“You were beautiful, and I don't mean that in a man admiring a woman sort of way. I mean…I finally saw the person God created you to be as you were dancing around that fire.”

“I don't know how to thank you, Lorimer. The gift you gave me yesterday, bringing me to Sissy—it has changed my life.”

“And how do you feel?”

“I've much to contemplate. It's so wonderful to have her back and to let go of all the questions and bitterness where she's concerned, but now my father…I don't know what to think.” She didn't mention herself. Even after yesterday's discoveries, deep down, she still suspected she was somehow to blame.

“Are you angry with your father?”

“I suppose a little. I think I should be, don't you?”

“But can you forgive him?”

She pondered the nature of the weight that burdened her chest each time she considered her father, the churning that filled her stomach. “I suppose what I feel is primarily sadness. Sadness for the people he hurt—my family included.” Sadness for her role in it all. “Perhaps if he were still alive I would be angry and have a hard time forgiving, but I'm having a difficult enough time reconciling this story with the loving papa I remember.”

“I see.” Lorimer waited for her to continue.

“Hard as this is, there is some relief in the fact that it finally all makes sense. For so many years I struggled to understand.”

Lorimer nodded.

“Why do you suppose it all happened?”

“In my estimation, the evil in this world comes from sin, from our poor choices.”

Papa had made poor choices for certain. But what about her? “So is it punishment?”

“Jesus paid for our sins on the cross. Fully and completely. I don't think of our trouble as a punishment, so much as a consequence. Look at Sissy. She deserved none of this. We've made ourselves a rather untidy world.”

“But isn't it somehow…God's will? Isn't everything?”

“That is not quite a teaching I ascribe to, Miss Cavendish. I believe in an active evil force and free will through God's grace. Although I must confess, I do see merit in both sides at times. While God does not ordain the work of the enemy or our bad choices, I suppose one might argue he does not actively prevent them either.”

“Oh.” Constance decided to change the subject before her guilt overwhelmed her. Guilt she could not yet bear to examine. “So I think I understand the song about the fire and the burning now.”

“I imagine so. You were glowing with the presence of God last night, offering up your body as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable.”

“A living sacrifice. It's a Scripture, I suppose.” Constance turned toward him, lifting one knee onto the wagon bench.

“Of course.” Lorimer flicked the reins. “I've been pondering the idea of fire since last we talked. In the Old Testament tabernacle, there was an altar where incense was offered to God. A fragrant burning released to the Lord. That's the sort of offering you were last night.”

“A fragrant burning,” Constance muttered. “How entrancing.”

“Yes, you were.”

Constance giggled and swatted his arm. “That wasn't what I meant.”

“I know, but you have a passion inside of you that's rare. That's why you asked, isn't it? You've tried to hide that passion, to bury it.”

She gulped. “Well, it's caused more than its share of trouble, I'm afraid.”

“But if that passion is directed to its proper divine source, do you see how powerful, how magnificent it can be?”

“I've never felt so in love as I did in that moment before the fire.” Constance looked up into the sky and watched the thick clouds rolling overhead. She'd never experienced such overwhelming adoration, not even toward Robbie. “And I felt so unified with God. I couldn't tell if I were in him, or if he was in me.”

“A little of both, perhaps.”

“But shouldn't I be at all afraid of this passion. It's so…so…” Robbie's words came back to her over the distance of memory. “Combustible!”

“A good fire always is.” Lorimer brushed a hand over his moist brow against the summer heat. “Let me tell you another story. The woman with the alabaster box. Have you heard this one?”

“No, but it sounds intriguing.”

“It is. She was a woman of ill repute, and she must have been given to great passion because of the unique offering she brought to Jesus. She knelt at his feet and opened an alabaster box to remove a costly ointment.”

Constance pictured the scene, imagining herself as the one before Jesus.

“And then in a show of extreme devotion and love, she began to cry and kiss his feet. She anointed them with her oil.”

“Oh, that is rather passionate.”

“But that's not all. She washed his feet with her hair and her tears.”

“No!” Constance put a hand to her cheek. She dared not imagine herself in such a scene now. She had thought it wild merely to let her hair fall from its pins and swirl about her last night.

“Yes.”

“But it seems so…” Constance could think of but one word to capture it, “sensual. Did Jesus rebuke her?” Surely the Holy Son of God would never permit it.

“Not at all.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.” Lorimer turned to her and smiled. “A Pharisee said if Jesus was a prophet he should know what sort of woman was touching him and rebuke her as you suggested. But Jesus rarely did what the religious expected of him.” That statement pulled at something inside of Constance.

“Instead,” Lorimer said, “he told one of his parables. The conclusion was, ‘Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.'”

“It's a wonderful story, but I'm not sure I follow.” Hadn't she been trying to earn her own salvation for the past five years?

“Think of it this way. A father has two daughters. One is always good and quiet and polite. When he enters the house after a long day, she looks up from her book and smiles and says, ‘Good evening, Father.' He's filled with warmth and gives her a kiss on the top of her head.”

“Yes, that would be Patience.” Constance winced, afraid of where this story might be heading.

“But then his second daughter runs in the house, late and muddy with the hem of her dress torn. Her hair is disheveled. She's giggling mischievously and looking over her shoulder. Then she turns and sees him and yells, ‘Papa, I've missed you!' The girl flings herself into his arms, kissing him madly, and he forgives her instantly whatever trouble she managed to find that day.”

Much like the Bible story, this did not conclude at all as Constance expected. She sat considering the implications.

“So who does the father love?” Lorimer asked.

“I suppose…” She paused and thought some more. This story struck as all too familiar. Tears filled her eyes and her throat grew raspy. “I suppose he loves them both very much—in very different ways. But I think maybe the passionate daughter holds a special place in his heart.”

“That she does.” Lorimer turned to chuck her under the chin. “That she does.”

Her papa did love her. She always knew that. But she'd let him down again and again. Warm, salty tears poured over her cheeks for the second time in two days. “And God will love me…forgive me, like this.”

“He has, and he does. All you need to do is accept his gift. You can't earn it, you know.”

She hadn't known. But she believed every word he said. Constance closed her eyes and offered up a prayer then and there. When she opened them, she experienced the same sensation of lightness she had the evening before. “You know, I do believe I danced my prayer to him last night and just confirmed it now with words and a greater understanding. Dance is a language all its own. Did you know that, Mr. Lorimer?”

“I believe I watched it happen.”

Again they rode quietly for a while, lost in their thoughts. Lorimer broke the silence. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Robbie?” He hurried on. “Not that it's my concern, but you seemed so troubled.”

Her heart clenched. She didn't want to recall that night but felt she owed Lorimer the truth. “The short version is he started behaving as if he truly cared for me, not merely like he hoped to keep me from you or win me as a prize.”

“And then?”

“And then he kissed me. Quite liberally, I'm afraid.” Her face heated.

“And then?”

“And then he stumbled away as if…stricken. He said he couldn't forgive me. That he could never trust me. At first I slapped him, I was furious. But in truth, he seemed so lost, so hurt, so confused.”

“Couldn't forgive? That doesn't sound like Robbie. Are you sure you understood?”

“I'm positive. He was abundantly clear. I've changed so much. Why can't he see it?”

Lorimer shook his head. “I have no idea.” He laid his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “I'll pray for you. For both of you.”

Despite the growing affection between them, Constance knew he would and took great comfort in that. She giggled. “Aye, it seems I've managed to get myself into a heap of trouble yet again.”

Lorimer turned and smiled. “It sounds funny when you say it with your British accent.”

“Oh no!” Constance pressed a hand to her mouth. “I'm afraid I have another confession to make. I'd grown so accustomed to it, I'd almost forgotten.”

His smile went lopsided and amused. “What now?”

“I don't actually…speak with a Yorkshire accent.” She moaned and buried her head in her lap.

Lorimer snickered a few times before breaking into a full laugh. “You adopted it to ingratiate Mrs. Beaumont, I assume.”

Constance turned her face to him and offered a wry grin. “You know me too well.”

“I suppose you'll have to wean yourself of it.”

“I suppose I shall.”

He shook his head, “You are quite a character, Miss Cavendish.”

“Perhaps you should call me Gingersnap, as my family does.”

Lorimer raised a brow. “It suits you. But never when Robbie is present. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

What a godsend to have this man in her life who accepted her unconditionally. Constance wished she might persuade her heart toward him and away from Robbie for good.