Love in Three-Quarter Time (2 page)

Pushing her chair from the table, Constance stood, leaving Mr. Franklin no choice but to gather his napkin and rise to his feet as well.

“Of course. Thank you all.”

Constance took his elbow and led him toward the front porch of their small townhouse. At least Aunt Serena had helped them manage to secure a place on the outskirts of the “right” side of town when they had lost the plantation. The street stood quiet and peaceful this time of night.

Much as she no longer enjoyed breaking hearts, having had her own heart shattered, Constance thought she should put matters to rest once and for all. “Dear Mr. Franklin,” she began in an attempt to soothe the blow.

He grabbed her hands in his own clammy ones. “Dear, dear Miss Cavendish.”

She pried them away and gripped the cool porch rail. “What I mean is, I fear my mother has given you a mistaken impression. I have no desire to seek a…that is to say…I am content with my station in life.”

“Never say so! Can't you see what an ideal match we would make? Both interested in education, both desiring the best for your family.” He looked as if he might go on, but truly, what else was there? They held little in common. “You are still a young and vibrant lady. I won't stand by and allow you to resign yourself to spinsterhood so soon.”

“Oh Mr. Franklin. You force me to say what I wish not to mention. I'm afraid I do not share your affections.”

“But I have affections aplenty for both of us. Let us not rush into anything. Give me time to win your heart.”

Constance took a deep breath. She had nothing to answer that. And if her employment situation progressed as she wished, it wouldn't matter anyway. “Well then, good night, Mr. Franklin.”

“Good night, Miss Cavendish.” He leaned toward her.

She stepped back and offered him her hand. Not flat for a kiss, but sideways for a friendly shake. Although it was unmannerly to do so, it was preferable to receiving his caress upon her skin.

He took her hand and shook with too much gusto. “Of course, then. Until we meet again.” Tipping his hat, he tripped backward down the steps before turning to walk toward his room around the block.

Constance closed the door from inside and sagged upon it, banging her head backward against it and giving into the briefest outburst of emotion while no one witnessed her actions.

She would not resort to a loveless marriage to save the family. She would save them herself. They wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for her headstrong rebellion. Surely God had finished punishing her for the misdeeds of her youth by now. Her changed demeanor must have earned her a reprieve, perhaps even a shred of forgiveness.

No, she could never marry Thaddeus Franklin. Her initial reasons for desiring Robert Montgomery might seem shallow and childish in retrospect, but time had proven no man could take his place. To this day he invaded her innermost thoughts. And because he cast her aside when she needed him most—and because she vowed never to forgive him—marriage was no longer an option.

Her plan simply must work.

She banged her head a few more times before arranging her features into a bland expression and returning to the cramped dining room.

CHAPTER 2

“I have something to share with you all.” Constance laid her needlework on her lap. In the evenings the entire household curled together in the tiny parlor to help Mother and Felicity finish their sewing for Madam Whitby's dress shop. Tonight she worked on a short, apricot spencer for overtop the gown of some fortunate young lady. The relaxed moment before the crackling fire seemed ideal to broach the matter pressing on her heart. She leaned forward on the brocade settee, another relic of their former life.

“Does your announcement have something to do with Molyneux?” Patience rested her head on Constance's shoulder for a moment. “When you returned sullen and silent, I assumed matters went poorly.”

“No, things did not go as I hoped. But…” Constance clapped her hands together to ensure their full attention. “While there, I learned of an opportunity—one that I hope to seize, one that could make a true difference for us.”

Mother blinked up from the fabric held too close to her face. So much sewing wreaked havoc on the poor woman's eyesight. She shook out her hand, no doubt stiff from so many long hours at the task. “Well, what is it? Why the grand introduction?”

Constance bit her lip as she fought down apprehension. “It might involve a bit of a risk. And a bit of a change. But it could be precisely the chance we've been needing.”

“Enough of the mystery.” Patience bumped her with an elbow. “Do tell.”

“There is a Mrs. Beaumont of Charlottesville in desperate search of a dance instructor and willing to pay an exorbitant sum.” Constance held her breath, awaiting their response.

For a moment no one spoke. The idea took time to sink in, to be certain. It would raise a myriad of complications, which Constance had not dared to examine at this point.

“And Molyneux offered to send you? To recommend you?” Patience asked.

“Not at all.” Constance stared down at her hands. “He snubbed me as usual. But I witnessed his tirade about the nerve of that woman. He plans to suggest she come to Richmond, but I thought I might find a way to approach her myself.”

“Mrs. Beaumont.” Mother placed her needlework on the side table. “I know a Mrs. Beaumont. We arrived from England about the same time in similar circumstances. I've crossed paths with her on a number of occasions over the years. Let me think now.” She tapped a finger to her mouth. “Aye, I recall. She was Mrs. Montgomery at the start.”

The name Montgomery crashed in Constance's head like a cymbal and continued to reverberate as Mother chattered. But Constance could not bring herself to speak.

“An innkeeper's daughter from Manchester, although from her airs you'd think her the child of a duchess. When her first husband passed, she married Beaumont. Aye, she's from Charlottesville. She had twin daughters the same age Felicity was. That I remember for certain. They played together once when we visited Serena. Yes, yes. She was a charming woman, sweet children. I remember now. We reminisced about life in England all the afternoon long. Why, I could send her a letter or, better yet, have Serena write one.”

Felicity pushed back her reddish-blonde hair and frowned. “Constance can't leave us.”

Grammy gave Felicity a squeeze. “I assure thee she'd return, darling.”

Constance still struggled to form a coherent thought in the wake of hearing Montgomery's name. Dare she ask?

Patience spoke before she had a chance. “We mustn't let this opportunity pass, Felicity. We can't keep working ourselves nearly to death. The plan was for me to tend shop and you and mother to sew while Constance built up a business that could support us and allow us to relax a bit. Maybe open that school. We've all been burning the candle at both ends.”

“Precisely.” Constance nodded in agreement. That was precisely why it did not matter if her Montgomery was related to this Mrs. Beaumont.

“In fact,” Patience said, “I don't think we should wait on a letter at all. If these girls are Felicity's age, their mother must be desperate. Every person of quality simply must be an expert at dance. They might be ready to launch into society any moment. By the time a letter gets there and back, she could find someone else. A visit in person is more apt to produce a positive result.”

“Nay, Constance can't just run off. Why, they're practically on the frontier.” Mother and Patience discussed her as though she were not in the room.

Fair enough as thoughts of Robbie and libraries, not to mention waltzes, kisses, and stabbing pains of betrayal all flooded her as she struggled to remain in the present moment.

“A letter will do,” Mother concluded. “I assume she's waiting for a response from Molyneux. Too bad he won't recommend her.” Mother scanned the ceiling and then turned her attention to Constance. “You know, I believe we have another connection we could use. I think her son might have been that handsome, young Montgomery who courted you in Prince George County.”

Constance could not push an answer past the growing lump in her throat.

Patience laughed. “Oh Mother, she had so many beaux. How could you possibly tell them apart?”

“I remember this one. He came to dinner on several occasions. Aye, he was from Albemarle County as well. I recall we did discuss his mother. Perhaps he'll remember your exceptional skill on the dance floor, Constance. Please tell me you were kind to him. What was his name now? Richard…Raymond…”

“Robert.” Constance managed to rasp out the word.

“Yes, of course, Robert. And you were rather fond of him. Weren't you?”

“Yes.” Constance's face felt cold. Surely all the blood had drained to her toes. Mother continued chirping as Grammy and Felicity looked on. But Constance could no longer decipher the words.

“Oh,
that
Robert Montgomery,” Patience whispered and placed a hand on Constance's back to rub small soothing circles. Only Patience knew Robbie had all but proposed—and that when Constance had gone after him, begging him to marry her and save them from ruin, Robbie had crushed her heart.

But she could not worry about that now. Constance hadn't seen Mother so animated in months. Even Felicity glowed at the prospect, now that she had adjusted to the idea.

“I shall make a wee bit of tea to celebrate!” Grammy announced, creaking out of her rocker and toward the kitchen.

Well, that settled it.

Robbie ran his own plantation, inherited from his late father. She could think of no reason to suspect he might live with the Beaumonts. He had spent much of his youth being educated in New England, and he had traveled often when she knew him five years ago. She might not see him at all. And if she did…She surveyed the hopeful faces in the room again.

For their sakes she'd find the courage to get through it. Constance Cavendish no longer succumbed to the fickle whims of her heart or to the heated passion of her emotions. Constance Cavendish made reasonable decisions and acted upon them with determination and decorum.

“I heard at the mercantile that many young men are touring Europe these days.” Patience, no doubt, wished to be helpful.

Yes, of course. Constance struggled to convince herself. He might reside an ocean away. She attempted to steady her breathing and rub a bit of color back into her cheeks.

Mother picked up her needlework again. “True. They dashed off once the war finished. Mother England beckons to us still, does she not?”

“Too bad Constance doesn't have some sort of British accent. That would secure her the position for certain. Or better yet, French like
Monsieur Molyneux.
” Patience inflected his name with a perfect mimicry of his exaggerated accent.

Constance chuckled despite her churning emotions. Patience always knew how to cheer her. “I could never manage a French accent as bad as his.”

“But you can do Yorkshire,” Felicity said. “We've all been imitating Grammy for years.”

“Perfect.” Patience patted the tops of her thighs. “She can go incognito as a seventy-year-old shepherdess. That would impress them for certain.”

“I hate to say it.” Mother raised a brow. Her own speech still held a touch of Yorkshire accent, although more refined than Grammy's. “But I do recall Mrs. Beaumont missing England terribly. She loved all things British and said my speech reminded her of home. Perhaps you
should
turn on the accent a wee bit if you meet her. I'll be sure to mention in the letter that you spent part of your childhood in England.”

“Part of my childhood?” Constance stared at her mother in wonder. “Are you referring to the summer we went to fetch Grammy?”

Patience waved away the objection. “No need to nitpick. Everyone expects a dance instructor to come from Europe. Dressmakers. Artists. Dancers. For all Americans fought for our independence, we're still slaves to European fashion. It might not hurt to give the accent a try. Everyone does so. Practice for us.”

Constance grimaced at her.

“Nay, of course not.” Mother tipped her head. “It was a preposterous suggestion. Nevertheless, I'll work on that letter first thing in the morning.”

“Trader Jack is heading down Three Notch'd Road tomorrow on his way to Jarman's Gap,” Patience said. “He'll go right past Charlottesville. We could send it with him. It would be quicker and more dependable than the standard post.”

“Excellent idea. I do believe White Willow Hall is directly off the main road. We'll send two letters to be safe—one with him and one with the usual post.” Mother yawned. “Goodness, I'm tired tonight.”

“Speaking of which, go to bed, Mother.” Constance stood and sidled around the tea table to reach her. She removed the lilac fabric from her mother's hands. “You look exhausted. And you too, Felicity. Patience and I can finish up.”

Mother snatched back her sewing. “You two worked all day as well—Patience at the store and you with your dance and the house.”

“I don't work so hard, and Patience looks fine.” Constance pried the fabric away again and walked it to the mantle out of her mother's reach. “Ten hours of lessons a week hardly amount to strenuous labor.”

Mother covered her yawn. “Give that sewing back to me, and we'll all work until Grammy serves the tea. Then Felicity and I shall head to bed. Patience, play us a song.”

Constance complied as Patience leapt from the couch. The poor girl hated sewing and was ever pricking her fingers—fingers that should spend their days playing the fortepiano, not packing purchases and collecting coins at the mercantile. She launched into a Mozart sonata with her expressive styling.

“Imagine,” Mother said with a hint of wistfulness, “if this succeeds and you begin to find clients, we can open that wee school just as I always dreamed. Perhaps Mrs. Beaumont will recommend you to her friends in Richmond. This time next year, I could be teaching needlework rather than slaving over it night and day.”

“Do you think I'm old enough to teach painting, Mother?” Felicity looked up eagerly. Nothing put a glimmer in her eye like talk of art. Of late she'd been fixated on the Romantic Movement. For tonight she contented herself embroidering butterflies.

“To the younger ones at the very least,” Mother said. “Why, the city of Richmond should be honored to have the accomplished Cavendish females instructing their young ladies. They simply don't know it.”

Constance sank back into the settee, the lump that earlier blocked her throat now settled in her belly. Everything depended on her success in this endeavor. She wondered if Richmond could ever accept the Cavendish family, but she wouldn't bring up the more probable scenario.

At least not yet.

* * *

Patience blew out the candle on the bedside table, leaving the small room she shared with Constance to the full moon's illumination. Midnight had come and gone before they finished the sewing, and 8 a.m. would arrive all too soon, when she'd be due at the mercantile. “I'm too tired to sleep,” she whispered.

The bedclothes next to her rustled as Constance rolled over and propped herself on an elbow. “What do you think, Patience? Dare I wait for a letter?”

“Dare you risk running into Robbie Montgomery? Oh Constance, I know you love us and would do anything for us, but that is simply too much to ask. You should tell Mother the truth. She would understand.”

“You saw their faces. I can do this. I will find the strength. I always do.”

Only Patience had seen the pain Constance endured at Robbie's hand. They'd all been through so much. But his rejection had been one blow too many. For months Constance moved through life in a haze, going through the motions as a shell of her former self. Mother had been too distraught over Papa's death and desperate to save the plantation to notice anything particularly amiss with Constance. Grammy had stayed busy keeping Mother sane. Felicity had been too young to understand.

No, only Patience knew what this job would cost Constance.

“Really, I can do it.” Constance tapped the nightstand.

Of course she
could
. This stoic Constance who had emerged from the ashes of their former life felt little and expressed less. How Patience missed her vibrant, fiery sister. Had she been a bit spoiled and selfish, headstrong and temperamental? Of course she had, but it was all part of her infamous charm. “I know you can. But I wish you would consider your own needs for once.”

“I am considering myself. I want out of this life as much as any of them.”

Patience sighed. “So do I.” Her feet ached from standing at the mercantile all day, and now her fingers throbbed from numerous pricks as well. Hence, she did not stay home and sew. Patience required people and action, not needles and thread—although the idea of a little school appealed to her.

“I don't think I should wait on a letter,” Constance said. “I think I should go myself.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, I agree. If you mean to do this thing, then you must do it right. I'll talk to Trader Jack first thing tomorrow. I think he plans to leave around noon.” Patience would miss her sister.