Love in Three-Quarter Time (6 page)

“Yes, perhaps we'll all join you and Robert for some tea shortly,” said Mrs. Beaumont.

Robbie took Constance's arm before his mother could protest further and propelled her toward the carved double doors at the front of the house.

Once they passed through the soaring columns and down the stairs, Robbie led her along the lane in the direction of the gated entryway.

“But the garden—”

“But the garden is far too close to the house for the conversation I have in mind. We might try to play at society out here in the wilderness, but the rules aren't so strict as to forbid a stroll at dusk. And if I rightly recall, you had somewhat…shall we call them
flexible…
standards on such issues anyway.” He patted Constance's hand, which rested in the crook of his arm, in a rather patronizing manner.

“That was years ago, Mr. Montgomery. I hope you will let me prove to you that I have changed. This endeavor is ever so important to your mother.”

“Mr. Montgomery now, is it? And I suppose that, Miss Cavendish, was your attempt to win my silence.”

Constance fought the urge to look up at him with big, sad eyes as she would have in her previous life. “I simply think it would be in our best interests to put history aside and focus on the needs of your sisters and your mother at this time. I promise I shall not let them down. I was indeed taught by the best.”

“Dancing? Ah, if it's dancing to which you refer, I can't disagree for a moment. Never was there a dancer such as Gingersnap Cavendish. No, I have no concern about your ability to teach dance—although I do have serious misgivings about your ability to consider anyone but yourself.”

Constance bit her lip against the pain inflicted to her gut by that last statement, but she would not cry. “Well then, rest assured in this. It is in my own interest to become the best dance instructor Charlottesville has ever seen. So whether for my benefit or theirs, the result shall be the same.”

He laughed, this time a sincere laugh. “That won't be difficult. I'm not entirely sure Albemarle County has seen an actual dance instructor before today.”

Constance smiled as well, but then the solemnity of the situation took over. “I wish you would give me a chance, Mr. Montgomery. I've been through much these past years, as well you know. I'm not the same careless girl you—” She had been about to say
fell in love with
, but then thought better. “I'm not the same careless girl you remember.”

“I believe you. More than you might expect. For starters, the girl I knew spoke plain English. Would you care to explain how you suddenly acquired a Yorkshire accent?”

“It is not sudden.” Constance stopped, turning to look up at him. “I spent the last few years…much of my childhood…I only suppressed it for…” Each of the lies died upon her lips as she gazed into his eyes. In the moonlight they shimmered like deep blue pools. She dared not let her mind wander to the last time she'd gazed upon him under the moon. “Patience thought your mother would hire me if she thought me British.”

Constance turned down her head in shame. Frog croaks sounded from the fishing pond to their left. He started to shake beside her. How angry was he? She went to tug away. But then a hearty belly laugh exploded from the man. She pulled apart from him, this time in disbelief, and watched as he tossed back his head. He buried his fingers in his gleaming hair. Then his head fell forward as he continued to laugh and slapped his knee.

Finally, he stood straight and wiped tears from his eyes. “That is so true! And it worked, so who am I to naysay you? It shall remain our secret, my clever girl, but don't blame me if I smirk when you use it. You sound like a shepherdess one moment and abandon it entirely the next. You'd think Mother would hear it. But then again, Mother has a tendency to hear what she wishes.” He dissolved into laughter again.

Constance's ears burned. She had so tried to maintain the correct intonations, but had been caught off guard again and again over dinner. “I'm glad you find such amusement in my discomfort.”

“It's the funniest thing I've ever heard.” They'd reached the gate now, and the sun had sunken beneath the horizon, leaving streaks of orange, red, and purple in its wake. Robbie turned her around.

“So we agree that you shan't tell your mother about my questionable British heritage? I actually did spend a summer there, you know.”

“Aye, we 'ave an agreement. I mun't tell my mother.” He flattened his own vowels in imitation of her accent, then pulled her hand back to his arm. His demeanor softened. “How is Grammy, by the way?”

He remembered. Tears pricked Constance's eyes. She cleared her throat. “Well enough, I suppose. A bit wheezy in the winter. Matters…” How much should she tell him? Oh but it felt good to have a listening ear for once. “Matters haven't been easy since we lost the plantation. We've found some work in Richmond, but not nearly enough.”

He patted her hand, with sympathy this time. “My apologies. I was tired when I came in today, and shocked to see you. I'm afraid I let some anger build toward you after that last big fight. I should have thought to ask about your family. Forgive me.”

As if he cared. If he had cared he would have married her then, taken them away from it all. He could have. Nothing stood in his way. But no, he deserted her and all her family. Nice as it might feel to cling to his rippling arm, it felt even better to cling to the comfortable shield of her anger and protect her heart as she had planned.

She bristled and stood straighter. The words slipped out before she could stop them. “As if you care.” She hadn't meant to speak them aloud. Gingersnap would have said something peevish like that. She attempted to settle her temper but met with only marginal success. “It hardly matters. This job will help. I don't need your pity, although after all these years a bit of support would be nice.”

Tension filled his arm. “You couldn't expect…never mind. I'll confirm your abundant amazingness, your majesty, demonstrate a few dances, and be on my way. I won't trouble you much longer.”

The temptation to draw her hand from his arm and stomp her foot, preferably on his toe, struck hard. But instead she took deep breaths and counted to ten as she matched her strides to his.

You've changed, Constance
, she told herself. She was no longer a hotheaded flirt. But she was doing no good job of proving it. “I'm sorry, Robert. I had resolved to keep my temper. Those memories…those days are not easy to recall.” Even as she said the words, images of Sissy and thoughts of her betrayal flooded Constance's mind.

“No, I'm sorry. We let our youthful passions run away with us, but we were never suited. I didn't take time to realize that until it was too late. But I hope you will believe me that it wasn't about your fortune.”

Constance blinked a few times, recalling his grimy image from earlier that evening. “You work your own land?” she asked without preamble. “I thought you owned a plantation, but today you called it a farm.”

“It's a long story.” He sighed. “Suffice to say, I'm making some changes. I consider them improvements. Most people wouldn't agree. I'm sure you wouldn't agree. My parents certainly didn't, but at least they've given up trying to deter me. Perhaps I should sleep there tomorrow. I hate to inconvenience the workers, but…I'm not sure we should stay in the same house. Then again I have to come for dinner and dance—”

“Inconvenience?” The man made no sense.

“Miss Cavendish. Robert.” Mrs. Beaumont called from the side verandah. “Enough of that cavorting in the dark. You'll be a questionable example for the twins. Hurry and join us for tea.”

Although the moon shone plenty bright to keep any “cavorting” from going on in the “dark,” Constance let go of Robbie's arm and hurried up the stairs. She did not for one moment wish to disappoint Mrs. Beaumont.

Taking a cup, Constance settled into a chair. As the family chatter washed over her, her mind slipped away into the cool, cloudless evening. All these years she'd thought Robbie greedy and callous, but nothing she'd seen here confirmed that. He worked his own land, dirtied his hands. It seemed he even traded his plantation for a farm. What could it all mean?

Perhaps she had somehow gotten everything wrong.

CHAPTER 7

Robbie rubbed a crick in his neck and wiped the sweat from his brow. He grew weary of plowing fields, but if they didn't finish planting this corn soon, he would risk losing the entire plantation…rather, farm. Mr. Jones at the bank hadn't been at all pleased to hear of his innovative plans. For years Robbie had let things run as usual, and Mr. Jones had been content to know his payments would arrive safely. But by Robbie's way of thinking, these changes were long overdue.

He had had every intention of freeing his slaves the moment he turned twenty-one and took over the operations from his mother, but then war had come in 1812 and the economy grew unstable. Then last year came with its freezing temperatures and failed crops throughout New England. Fortunately the States hadn't been hit as hard as Europe, where many still suffered starvation. But matters such as emancipation must be handled with care. He couldn't simply send his people out into the cruel world to fend for themselves during difficult times.

Ever since childhood, Robbie had detested slavery—even risking his father's wrath as a young boy by claiming he would free them someday. His schooling in the North only further embedded his distaste. But the day he rode to his plantation from White Willow Hall to find his childhood playmate, Jimbo, being beaten in the fields by the overseer had been the day Robbie vowed to make a change. Mr. Beaumont moved Jimbo to White Willow and replaced the cruel overseer, but that had not sufficed.

Finally, this spring Robbie gave the servants their emancipation papers and offered them all work on his farm. But as he'd always feared, nearly a third left to find family in the North, and another batch took off to join the band of “Black Indians” nearby. He surveyed the barren land around him. They could never manage to run a tobacco plantation of over five hundred acres with half a workforce. Their only chance lay in the new crops of corn and wheat, which were much needed and should yield a good price.

Terrence Sugarbaker snapped him from his thoughts as he galloped toward Robbie on the back of a black stallion. “If it isn't the noble farmer hard at work.”

“Not all of us can go through life spoiled and pampered, my handsome friend.”

Terrence pulled to a stop beside him, flinging yet more dirt on Robbie's muddy breeches.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry about that. Not that it makes much of a difference.” Terrence, looking the fair-haired dandy as always, removed his pristine riding gloves and hopped off his horse.

Robbie stared down the front of his dirty ensemble. “True.”

“So how goes the grand experiment, my friend?” Terrence crossed to Robbie and gave him a slap on the back, dislodging yet more dirt in the process.

Robbie glanced about the barren field. “Well enough.”

“Is that some sort of euphemism for not well at all?” Terrence surveyed the land along with him.

“It's taking longer to seed than I expected, but the other fields should be sprouting any day.” He brushed his dirty hands against his breeches. They snagged upon the fabric, rough and calloused, no longer the hands of a gentleman.

“And you're certain corn and wheat are the way to go?”

“I can't manage tobacco with only sixteen field workers. I've already shut down the main house.”

“Yes, I heard. Living with the Beaumonts for the time being, are you?”

“It frees many hands. And I've made Jimbo the overseer.” Jimbo had been a house slave ever since that awful day, safe with the family where he belonged. And he'd received the education to allow him to run the plantation.

“You can't do anything halfway, can you, Robbie? A Negro overseer. Your neighbors won't take kindly to that, you know.”

“You
are
my neighbor.”

Terrence snapped his gloves against his pant leg. “My father is your neighbor. I must live on his charity for many years to come. I love you, Robbie old boy. I always will. But you've gotten yourself into quite a mess here. Have you considered planting half the tobacco instead of switching crops?”

“I thought about it, but if we have a bad year, I won't make my bank loan.” The loan his late father had taken to build the grand house for his mother.

“And you think you can make it with any amount of wheat? Tobacco's the cash crop. Have you been traveling so much that you've forgotten?”

“But it's hard to cart it to the nearest ships. The local farmers have proven grain grows well here, and prices are higher than ever. I've done the calculations. With corn in the summer and wheat in the winter, I estimate I can produce double the crops with half the labor. If it works, perhaps others will attempt it and let their slaves go free.”

“Ha!” Terrence kicked the dirt in front of him. “More likely sell them to the highest bidder. Since our illustrious congress shut down overseas slave trade, slaves have become the most valuable commodity in the country. You might as well surrender, Robbie. Right or wrong, you will not win this fight.”

Perhaps, but he would die trying. He had already given a piece of his soul in the battle, a piece he could never get back. Robbie shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. “It's too late now. We've already seeded two fields with corn. Your tobacco plants might be sprouting in their flats, but I've plenty of time to get this crop going.”

“I hope so. I certainly hope so.”

“Why don't you find Sally and ask her to prepare us some tea. The kitchen behind the house is still open. We can sit on the porch and you can help me strategize. I'll follow you in a moment.”

“Excellent plan. Looks as if you need all the help you can get, my friend.” Terrence leapt back onto his horse with the smooth sweep of a Virginia gentleman and trotted toward the sprawling Montgomery Manor.

Robbie surveyed the white walls and encircling verandah.
His
house, left to him by his beloved father along with the debt attached. He couldn't lose it. He struck his hoe deep into the soil to finish this last section before joining Terrence.

Terrence was correct. Robbie needed all the help he could get. He never expected so many of his servants to leave. But the lure of complete freedom—even with the opportunity to be paid servants rather than slaves—proved too strong for them.

He surveyed the field again and shook his head. Whom did he hope to fool? He could never leave here in one week, let alone two. Not that his activities in Princess Anne were any less important than running the farm. He might have to move his participation closer to home for a time, although that option held its own risks. But he had no choice. He couldn't turn this disaster over to Jimbo. Not yet.

Yes, Robbie needed help. So much so that he'd been tempted to pray. He had even allowed Jimbo and the others to offer petitions for the place.

But Robbie believed God helped those who helped themselves. He'd never felt comfortable bothering God with his petty problems. Surely as the supreme being of the entire universe, God had more important issues with which to concern himself. Robbie made this decision, and he would make it work—somehow.

The house. The fields. The servants. The loan. And those were suddenly only half his troubles.

Miss “Gingersnap” Cavendish of Prince George County now resided at White Willow Hall. Unthinkable! He almost wished he'd managed the expense and left Montgomery Manor open. Perhaps he could stay at the house quietly without the servants noticing. But they'd be sure to see the fire and feel obligated to tend him.

Maybe if Constance kept her hair tucked in that prim chignon and her face plain as it had been last night, he could somehow survive a week. But two? And would that even suffice, or would he be trapped in Albemarle the entire summer? If he grew desperate enough, he'd move into an abandoned slave shack and be done with it.

He had left behind that spoiled, temperamental chit long ago. Why must she come flouncing back into his life now, of all times? He would never forget the searing hatred in her eyes when she spoke that night about runaway slaves and abolitionists.

Her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. Brown on the surface with golden candlelight snapping in the background. He recounted the numerous times he had lost himself in those eyes. Skimmed his fingers through the satin curls about her face, dreamed of her hair flowing like what he always dreamed of as a river of liquid fire over his skin.

Robbie smashed his hoe harder into the ground and pushed Miss Cavendish out of his imagination. So he had loved the girl. What of it? He had been young and foolish. When he saw her true character revealed, it was too late to save her, as she had begged him to do.

His heart sank in his chest. Yes, she'd begged him to marry her. To rescue her home and her family, and he'd turned her down. He wanted to help her, had even offered her money. But the stubborn girl refused it. He couldn't tell her the truth. She would never understand. And he couldn't live a lie for the rest of his life.

If she knew the truth, she would never marry him.

If she knew the truth, she would spit in his face.

And hang him by his neck from the nearest tree if she had her way.

* * *

“Stand straight. Heels together and toes parted like such.” The lessons began on Monday because Constance and the entire family had traveled to Charlottesville for church at the courthouse the day before. Constance stood in the expansive ballroom, which had been added off the side of the parlor at Mrs. Beaumont's insistence years ago. The line of windows along the gold walls featured crimson velvet curtains.

But the girls in front of Constance in no way lived up to the elegant expectations of the setting. Molly arched her back, thrusting her ample chest before her and pointing her nose to the ceiling. Dolly stood beside her, rear extended too far to the back.

“No, no, girls. Imagine thou are a puppet on a string.” Constance moved to each of them and pulled an invisible string at the top of their heads, brushing her hand along their plump bodies to create the right shape.

The improvement was immediate.

“Very nice, darlings,” Mrs. Beaumont called from the corner, where she supposedly worked on her embroidery.

“Dolly, angle thy toes out a wee bit more.” Constance demonstrated again.

The girl turned her toes, but in the process bent her knees and poked out her bottom. Perhaps this was futile.

“Never mind. Go back to how thou were.”

Constance had wished to begin with ballet training, but given only two weeks, she must focus entirely on the steps for now. At least she had convinced Mrs. Beaumont to keep to a country dance with its calls and variations for the practice party. The dreaded waltz could wait for now.

“Try to maintain a proper posture and imitate this simple step. Watch first, please.” Constance stood before the girls facing the same direction they faced and began a simple shuffling movement side to side. “Now try it with me.” She ran through several more repetitions. “And continue as I turn to observe.”

She spun around just in time to see them bumbling in the wrong directions on heavy feet with no rhythm whatsoever before Dolly tripped over Molly.

Molly grabbed her foot, hollering “Ow!,” and proceeded to hop about on her other foot, which sent her colliding into Dolly. Dolly, still attempting the steps, lost her balance and crashed to the floor. At which point, the one-footed Molly crumbled on top.

Constance stood gaping before the tumble of blue and pink skirts. At least the girls kept their colors consistent, and she could tell them apart.

“I see you have a great deal of work ahead of you, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont called with a grin.

Why must the woman be in here? But on second thought, better she know the disaster Constance faced at the beginning. In this situation, she would do much better if judged upon improvement rather than skill.

Two weeks?