Love in Three-Quarter Time (24 page)

CHAPTER 33

Constance's heart fell. Her face went cold. Her head began to buzz and spin. But the words Robbie had just spoken rang as nonsense. He hadn't killed her father. He couldn't have. “That's impossible. It was the slaves. They ran away.”

“Constance, think. How did you fail to put it together long ago? With whom do I work?”

The…abolitionists.
The words filtered through her head, but she did not speak them aloud.

“It was all my plan, all my fault. I didn't mean for him to die. But they needed to escape. They would have revolted any day without my help. You don't know what he did to them.”

Constance sat frozen, trying to reconstruct his words. Put them into some sort of order, some sort of meaning that might make sense.

“You would have done the same thing in my place. But I'm not making excuses. I should have gone home with him. I should never have allowed him to leave alone, drunk, and exhausted. I'm the one who lured him away in the first place. It's all my fault. I let my emotions cloud my judgment. My feelings for you. I should have returned with him, but I was too busy worrying about our relationship. I should have given more thought to protecting your father. I knew how dearly you loved him.”

He let his hands fall to his sides as his voice drifted to a whisper. “I may as well have killed him myself.”

As the fog in her mind began to clear, comprehension dawned.

The man she loved had destroyed her father. Her entire world. Her mind swirled into utter chaos and threatened to explode. Something inside of her snapped.

In that moment she had two choices.

To give into despair and faint.

Or to turn to anger and scream.

She chose the latter.

* * *

Robbie jumped back as if scorched by a roaring fire. One moment she had sat there still, too still. Face white. Breathing shallow. Just as he feared she might faint and reached to catch her, she began to shriek.

“No! No! It can't be. Tell me it isn't true.”

How he wished he could.

“It was you all this time! Why didn't I see it?” She stood and hollered at the stream a few more times, pulling at her copper hair. “No, no, no!”

He went to take her by the shoulders. To calm her. To comfort her.

But she reared on him, poking her slender finger into his chest with a strength he hadn't known she possessed. “It was all a ploy, wasn't it? You never loved me. You only wanted to get close to my father. To rip our lives apart.”

Now his face went cold and tingly. The world spun about him, and he wondered if
he
might faint. “How could you think such a thing? I loved you. From the first moment I saw you.” He struggled to draw a breath. “Yes, in the beginning it was a plan. I was to find you and court you from the start. The problem arose when I met you. When I held you in my arms. When my lips first touched yours.”

He turned and pressed his forehead into the rough bark of the tree. “I couldn't think straight. How to help the slaves escape? How to divert a disaster while keeping hold of you? I failed miserably. I ruined everything.”

Her hand clasped to his shoulder and swung him around. “Don't you dare hide your face from me. Be a man. So you killed my father, destroyed my plantation, and then deserted me for good measure. Fine way to treat the woman you love!”

“How was I to know of his treachery and debts? I only knew how terribly he treated his slaves. How could I ever marry you with this horrid secret between us? I couldn't. We were doomed. I tried to help you, but you wouldn't let me. I ruined it all, and there's no turning back. It's too late for us. It has been ever since that night. Only I couldn't tell you. I feared you'd see me hanged.”

She stepped back and clutched her head. “No. No. I vowed I wouldn't let this tear us apart. Whatever it was. But I never thought…never dreamed.” She moaned. “How could you?” Her voice rose again to a shriek. “I hate you, Robert Montgomery! Just leave me alone!”

And with that, at last, she crumpled at his feet.

The tall, thick meadow grass cushioned her fall. He bent over and lifted her into his arms like a cherished child, all the while picturing their own little girl, feisty and beautiful, who would never come to be. He carried Constance to the blanket and laid her upon it. He stroked her face, studying each feature. The glimmering red wisps of her lashes. The upturn of her nose. The summertime freckles across her cheeks. The pink bow of her lips. He stored them away in his heart, hoping to draw from the memories in the long years to come.

For one last time, he sank his fingers into the hair he called a river of liquid fire, savoring its silken slip across his skin.

Then he stood and dipped his handkerchief in the cool stream. He dabbed it upon her creaseless brow.

She came awake with a look of confusion upon that exquisite face. Before she could gather her wits and berate him yet again, he said, “Farewell, Gingersnap. I will always love you,” and he strode away.

She had been right.

He was no sort of man at all.

* * *

Patience tapped lightly upon the door frame with her fingernails. She still had no idea what had gone awry three days ago when Constance met Robbie for their conversation. All she knew for certain was that her sister had returned devastated to a magnitude that overshadowed even her similar experience five years earlier.

The sight upon the bed would have been comical had Patience not understood the significance. A long white muslin dress with an apricot sash stretched over the coverlet, slender arms and silk slippers sticking out. In place of a head, however, she spied only a fluffy pillow. Clearly, this was her sister's attempt to block out sight, sound, and the world at large.

“Constance,” she whispered, worried that her sister's head might be pounding again. “The Beaumont ladies are insisting that you join us downstairs for the fashion demonstration. The ball is less than a week away, you know.”

“How could I forget?” The mumbled answer came from beneath the pillow.

Constance peeked out from under the pillow, her hair rumpled. “Must I truly?”

“You must. Or it shall be my head that will roll. Unless, of course, you want to explain to everyone what in the world is going on.”

Constance let forth a pathetic, squeaky, little moan. “May I have a glass of water first?”

Patience crossed to the basin and poured her one. “Need to replenish for tonight's display of waterworks?”

“Trust me, sister, I've no tears left.”

“Not at the moment.” Patience attempted to joke as she handed her the glass.

Constance managed a feeble smile.

“Come then, you can do this. It will be good for you.” Other than her lessons, Constance had barely left this room in days. “I wish you would tell me what he said.”

“I can't. I truly can't, and no amount of coercion shall change that this time.”

“What about tickling?” Patience wiggled her fingers.

“Not even tickling. Suffice to say, Robbie was correct. We shall never overcome this.”

Patience's chest tightened. She frowned. What could be so hopeless as to overcome a decision to love? She tugged on her sister's elbow. “Let me fix your hair.”

Constance sat up and Patience rearranged the fiery locks with a nurturing touch.

The ministrations soothed the tension from Constance's shoulders.

Patience gave her sister's hair a final pat. “There, now paste on that fake smile you do so well.”

Constance stretched her lips tight, showing her teeth and gums in an unbecoming display. “How's this?”

“Ugh, I suppose it shall have to do.”

The young ladies walked arm in arm to the parlor, and as expected, Constance glued on her convincing smile just in time. The ladies would never suspect anything was amiss.

“They're here,” Mrs. Cavendish shouted into the ballroom.

Patience led Constance to the settee opposite Mr. Beaumont. Even the house servants stood in a jumble near the corner awaiting the show. Felicity remained behind the makeshift stage, helping with the dresses.

Mother took one last peek around the corner and turned back, her face covered in a rare, bright smile. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. I would like to introduce for your viewing pleasure the first in the line of fine Cavendish ball gowns. We shall begin with our elegant attire for the more mature matron. Mrs. Beaumont, if you would, please?”

Mrs. Beaumont stepped through the archway, truly awe-inspiring in her new gown. She sauntered into the room, head held high, and paused in the center.

“You will first notice the latest color of this bold purple crepe and the daring décolletage. Then take a moment to peruse the finer details—the silver embellishment about the deep-set bodice and short triple-puffed sleeves, the subtle daisy embroidery where the crepe finishes, the elaborate gathers, and the twists of silver near the floor. Finally, note the intricate row of tassels at the hem.”

Mrs. Beaumont turned a slow circle to provide a better view. The tassels bobbed around her purple silk slippers.

“Lovely, darling. Quite mysterious and fetching.” Her husband called and whistled like the country boy he was at heart.

The entire room clapped over the fine creation.

The costume left Patience breathless. Mother hadn't even mentioned the silver turban, the scarf in a darker shade of eggplant, or the matching purple opera gloves she had purchased from Richmond.

“It's perfect, Mrs. Beaumont. Thou shall be the talk of the evening.” Constance assured her with a small grin, which must have cost her dearly.

That set Mrs. Beaumont to beaming like Mother.

“Next, I will reveal our coming out gowns for the ingénue. Girls?”

The twins pranced into the room arm in arm, giggling and looking like sugarcoated candy confections.

“Here you shall perceive an entirely different look of freshness and innocence. Note their typical pink and blue silk along the underskirt, but in updated shades of blush and azure.”

Truly mother should do this for a living. Never mind the school.

“At the top you shall see the latest trend of a protruding, frilled, white gauze bodice that circles off the shoulder with a short white sleeve. The overskirt of white gauze is scalloped along the bottom to better reveal the colorful layer beneath. At each scallop you will detect a matching rosette, which leads way to an embroidered rose pattern in pink, blue, and green. And finally, the pattern is topped by a thick hoop of twisted silken strands just below the knee.”

Again she did not mention the long white gloves or the matching rosette caps.

“Lovely,” called Patience. “You shall be the belles of the ball.”

“You've captured their very essence. I can almost picture dew upon the buds.” Mr. Beaumont began the applause.

But the girls stared at Constance, awaiting her expert opinion.

“Perfect,” she rasped, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Patience could only assume Constance reflected upon her own coming out ball. The night Robbie had first kissed her.

“Everything is perfect.” Mrs. Beaumont nodded. “And all because of you, Miss Constance. Who would have thought when you arrived at our door a few months ago that so much might be accomplished by the time of the ball? The twins dance like angels and look like fairy princesses.”

Constance pressed her lips tight together.

“And to thank you,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “we have one final surprise.”

Felicity swept into the room, wearing the most exquisite gown of the day.

“This is my gift to you, Constance. I included instructions in my letter to your mother.”

Mother did not attempt to describe this one, but allowed them all to gape. Neither matronly nor girlish, it was the perfect dress, indeed. Were Patience to choose one for herself, it would be this one for certain. However had they kept the secret even from her?

The gown was made of dusky rose silk and layered with the thinnest possible gauze, the entirety of which was covered in a simple, scrolling floral design in green embroidery. A garland of multicolored silk blossoms circled near the ruffled, gauzy hem. The bodice traced Felicity's blossoming shape with a thin row of silk lined by ribbon, and an understated gathering of the gauze with another row of ribbon ran along the top.

But the pièce de résistance was the sleeves. Thin and off the shoulder with full-length sheer gauze falling to the wrists, broken only by flower garlands banding each arm.

“Oh! Delightful!” cried Mr. Beaumont. “If the girls are fairy princesses, this is no doubt Shakespeare's Queen Titania festooned in the flowers of the forest.”

Everyone shouted their agreement.

Patience turned to Constance, who appeared pale and tense.

“And she shall wear it to lead off the waltz with Robbie.” Mrs. Beaumont squealed with excitement like a young girl. “We shall give him a rose waistcoat and flower upon his black frock coat to match. Won't they be a pair to remember? You two always do look so handsome together.” Mrs. Beaumont wiggled her brows at Mother. Good grief. What sort of matchmaking were they about? Patience had caught yet more whispered exchanges of late. No doubt they would love to officially link the families. Didn't they know they were doomed to fail?

Mother held her hands to her mouth as she gazed upon her creation. “I always did love you in rose, darling.”

Constance's face became even paler, if such a thing were possible. She blinked hard several times. Recovering herself, she said. “Oh, Mrs. Beaumont, Mother, it's so lovely I might just cry.”

And with that, she choked back a sob, pressed her hand to her mouth, and dashed from the room.

CHAPTER 34

Robbie walked through the field of tall, green stalks, grazing his hands over the fluffy tassels sprouting from ear after ear of corn.

“We did it,” he spoke the words to Jimbo in awe. Somehow they had managed to produce a prosperous crop just in time. Soon they would harvest, and then prepare the field for winter wheat planting.

“Sure enough, we did, Mr. Robbie. Can't hardly believe it myself, but us folks been prayin' day and night, so I suppose I got to. We serve us a mighty, marvelous God. That we do, indeed.” Jimbo removed his hat and scratched his head.

“That we do, indeed,” Robbie echoed. “Might have to hire some help for the harvest, though.”

“Don't you pay that no never mind. The women and children will pitch in.” Jimbo pulled apart the green husk to reveal the bright yellow kernels beneath. “Look a' that. Don't get no prettier. They'll be glad to help.”

“Well, I'll happily pay them.”

“This here farm is all our farm, Mr. Robbie. That's the beauty of it. We all want to succeed, to have a safe place to raise our young 'uns. And shucks, truth is, we all love you somethin' fierce.”

Jimbo embraced Robbie in a solid, man hug. They thumped each other hard on the back.

Robbie would not cry. Real men did not cry. His father had always said as much. And surely he'd let his father down enough in turning his majestic plantation into a working farm. Robbie blinked away tears before they could form in his eyes and swallowed down the lump in his throat. Constance might be lost to him for good, but he still had his home. And he still had his friends, Jimbo foremost among them.

He pulled off his own hat and wiped his brow. “I'll head down to the house for a while. I need to decide if I'm going to open it now that matters have improved.”

“You know you're always welcome at my hearth. But I've been thinkin' it sends a better impression to the neighbors for the big house to be open.”

“My opinion precisely.” Robbie shielded his eyes from the sun to gaze at the still plantation house. Too still.

“Besides that, now that I'm an overseer, I got me the ladies lining up at my doorstep. I figure it's high time I pick myself a wife and fill that house you done give me with my own family. You too, if you don't mind me sayin' so. Miss Constance Cavendish ain't the only woman in the world.”

She's the only woman for me
, Robbie thought. But he didn't wish to sound so pathetic. Instead he joked, “We've got two single ladies on the farm, Jimbo. Must be quite a line.” He slapped his friend on the back, and headed for the house.

There was something in there he must find. That he hadn't looked at in months. But perhaps, just perhaps, it might hold some answers. As the good Lord well knew, he hadn't come up with any answers for himself. There was merely a gaping chasm where his heart once dwelt.

Constance claimed God concerned himself in even the minute details of his life. That Robbie could trust God with this. And although he'd glibly dismissed her words at the time, they'd haunted him ever since.

Truth resonated in every syllable of her words.

Why couldn't he bring himself to turn to God for help? If Lorimer could do it, if Jimbo could do it, if even Constance could, why on earth couldn't he?

He stomped the mud off his boots and unlocked the front door. Dust motes fluttered about him in the low-streaming sunshine. The musty house needed airing but otherwise stood in good repair.

Once in the library, he spied the book for which he searched. Opening the curtains to let in the light, he studied the worn leather cover. Perhaps the answers he sought were inside. He sat upon an armchair and began to flip through the pages. No, that seemed rather pointless. He paused to utter a quick prayer. “
Dear Father God, please guide me as I search your Word. Show me your truth. Speak to me your answers.
”

Silently, he waited.
Proverbs
, the thought came to him. Proverbs contained many wise sayings. That's what he needed more than anything on this day—God's wisdom to guide him on a new path, a path upon which he might somehow find a way to survive without Constance Cavendish at his side. A path of peace where he might eat and sleep again. A path of joy upon which he would no longer wish to curl in a ball and die.

God is interested even in the minutest details of your life
. Her words rang again in his ears. He began in chapter eleven, jumping into the thick of it. Perusing the Scriptures, he read much about wisdom, about God's way versus man's way. As he continued, the word
pride
jumped out at him again and again, smacking him in the face as he read the words from chapter sixteen he'd heard so many times before. “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”

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 velvet. 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?