Love in Three-Quarter Time (7 page)

CHAPTER 8

Constance pushed her dumpling about her plate. The scent of cinnamon and baked apples should have tempted her, but her appetite deserted her as the moment of truth approached. In a few short minutes she would be forced to dance hand in hand with Robert Montgomery. He had begged off from exhaustion on Monday. Failed to show entirely on Tuesday. But Mrs. Beaumont had sent her husband to drag him here today.

No doubt he dreaded this moment as much as Constance did. They both had too many memories, too many feelings.

“Enough of this lollygagging. Both of you, time to dance.” Mrs. Beaumont clapped and stood. Constance looked up and observed that everyone had finished dessert but Robbie and her.

She could postpone the demonstration no longer. Constance had managed to get the girls at least stumbling in the right direction and turning on the appointed counts. Performing with Robbie would give her a perfect opportunity to exhibit the technique she desired and the importance of the advice she'd been giving them.

The twins tittered as they headed to the ballroom. Mr. Percy excused himself, and Mr. Beaumont offered his arm to his wife. Only Robbie and Constance dawdled behind.

“You look as though you must march to your own execution, Miss Cavendish,” Robbie snorted.

Constance raised her eyebrows. “Likewise, I'm sure, Mr. Montgomery.” At least her accent came more naturally after nearly a week—other than the thees and thous, which she only employed for the Beaumonts' sake.

“We can manage this, can't we?” He offered her his elbow. “We always did partner well together.”

“Of course.” She stood and tucked her hand into his arm. “It's merely a performance. Let's treat it as such.” But the heady scent of his familiar cologne sparked places in her heart she thought had gone cold long ago.

No! She would not torture herself so. She would focus on rhythm, steps, technique. She would by no means lose herself in a swirl of music and memories tonight.

This job mattered. Her family mattered. Restoring their good reputation mattered. Robert Montgomery and any feelings she might maintain toward him were of no consequence.

Once they entered the ballroom, Mrs. Beaumont took over. “Excellent. Now Robbie, Miss Cavendish, to the center. Molly, take the fortepiano, please.”

“Oh, Mrs. Beaumont, I should like for Molly to focus upon the steps. Perhaps thou could accompany us.” And Constance would prefer that Mrs. Beaumont not observe her dancing with Robbie lest she give herself away. The woman already watched them closely since that walk in the dark.

Mrs. Beaumont turned a rather unbecoming shade of pink.

“Mother does not play.” Robbie whispered the words directly in Constance's ear. His tickling breath caused a pleasant shiver to ripple through her.

As his spicy scent wafted close, she nearly lost herself in it once again. Constance dug fingernails into her palms to distract herself from the sensation.

“The girls can take turns,” Mrs. Beaumont pronounced. “You'll simply have to perform everything twice.”

Wonderful; this night might never end. Constance clenched her teeth together and turned to Robbie.
Family, reputation, employment
, she recited in her head.

Steeling herself against his stunning blue eyes, she curtseyed before him. No melting under his gaze. She would permit no tingling tonight. Not a single tremor. Constance willed her heart to beat at a normal pace. She needed none of that erratic nonsense this evening.

Was that a smattering of freckles across his nose? Had she forgotten them in all these years, or had they sprouted during his labor under the sun? They lent him a youthful appearance.

Utterly charming. Ugh!

She and Robbie did not suit. He had said as much himself. She could not afford to drift into a dream world. Dreams faded, crashing back into reality. Robert Montgomery had broken her heart once; she would never allow him to do so again.

Family, reputation, employment.

“Ready,” he mouthed with a quirk of his full lips as Molly played the first trill.

“Ready,” she whispered.

Family, reputation, employment.
She continued chanting the words in rhythm to the music as the dance began.

* * *

Robert Montgomery held the unyielding woman against him for the briefest moment, and then released her into the movement once again.

Who was this Constance Cavendish, and what had she done to the girl he once knew? He saw a glimpse of Gingersnap waltzing through the hallway on that first day, and then again when they fought after dinner, but never since.

This woman with her prim hair and reserved demeanor? He could resist her quite easily. The eyes were the same as the woman he had known, but they lacked the fire he remembered. The copper curls were pulled tight beyond recognition, but more than that, her features remained tight, pinched, nearly all of the time. Where was his laughing, smiling Gingersnap? The girl buoyed on life?

But that very life had conspired against her. Her father's betrayal and death, Robbie's betrayal—as she no doubt saw it—and the loss of the plantation. Yet she didn't appear bitter. No, she seemed more like…
empty
, a mere shell of her old self.

A capable, hardworking woman. A proper woman. A good woman, to be sure. Perhaps the type of woman he would be wise to fall in love with. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted. And this woman was not his Gingersnap.

Yes, sadly enough, he could resist this woman.

She glided through the movements of the dance with the elegant flair he remembered, but no heart. No sizzle. No abandon.

For a moment he missed the old Gingersnap. But this was for the best. With this woman he could be friends, dance, and survive residing in the same house without endangering his heart. The heart he'd hardened against the old Gingersnap. He had chosen anger over annihilation, but what had the girl truly done to deserve it?

She'd spoken in the heat of the moment. She had been distraught and overwhelmed when she swore she would hunt down her
“ignorant, selfish, faithless slaves and drive a stake where their hearts should be.”
And that she'd
“find every last abolitionist and watch them suffer a slow and lingering death.”

She hadn't meant it, surely. He'd never seen her be anything but kind to the servants then or now. Other than that one night, had he ever heard her utter a single word against the abolitionist cause? If so, he did not recall.

He wondered how much she had changed, if she might ever forgive him the truth. But he saw no point in telling her. He would only hurt her, and this shell of a woman had clearly been hurt enough already.

* * *

With that refrain of family, reputation, employment, Constance had managed her way through two more demonstration sessions with Robbie. And today, before the big dance, she would enjoy a morning in the countryside. She patted the soft white mane of the mare beneath her and prompted the horse to a canter. Constance hadn't ridden since they had given up the plantation over three years ago. Aunt Serena's husband had fetched them in his carriage and taken them to their new life in Richmond, and they'd had no need to travel by carriage or horse since.

Oh how Constance missed her horses. And she missed the freshly tilled earth of a plantation in springtime, running barefoot across it, hatless, the wind whipping through her hair. She ducked beneath a low-hanging branch as she and the mare emerged from the forest trail into an open meadow, soft and rolling, unlike the flatlands of her youth.

Now was the time.

She flicked the reins and patted the horse firmly on the flanks, urging her to a gallop. The horse whinnied in hearty agreement and took off full-force. Both she and the mare reveled in the windswept moment. She abandoned herself to the motion of the gallop, loosening her body to give in to the flow—much like dancing, but with more speed and even more exhilaration. She gave the horse its head for several turns about the meadow until it slowed for a drink from the stream.

May and its scents wafted through the air. Constance hopped down and picked a handful of rainbow-colored wildflowers. She held the moist petals to her nose, drinking in the sweet perfume. Once upon a time, this had been her world.

Day after day, she—“Ginger” to her friend—and Sissy had splashed through a stream much like this along a meadow not so different. Far away from prying eyes and societal rules, they created their own world, a world where slaves and masters, black and white no longer mattered.

“Let's be Indians today,” Sissy had said. “Oh how I be wishin' for one of them leather dresses in that book you done read to me.”

“We can build a fire in the woods and dance around it.” Gingersnap twirled in delight.

“Aw, shucks, Miss Ginger. You turn everything into a dance. I say we hunt today.”

“Hunting sounds fun. But that's a job for Indian braves. We wouldn't want to put them to shame. Squaws collect berries for food and dyes.”

“Well then, let's go get us some blackberries. I done saw a bush just burstin' with them a little way in the woods.”

“Wait! Let's bring our babies along.” Gingersnap snatched up her porcelain doll while Sissy fetched her simple corn husk baby. “We should tie them to our backs like the squaws do. Here, undo my bow.”

Sissy assisted Ginger with her bow as she did every morning at the house. Back home they were mistress and maid, but here they were the best of friends. Sissy retied the bright blue bow with the baby secured against Ginger.

Sissy had no satin bow. Only a simple, homespun top and skirt in shades of tan and brown to match her coffee-and-cream-colored skin. So Ginger untied Sissy's kerchief and secured the corn husk doll about her.

Slapping her hand to her mouth and shouting, Sissy led the way. “Aw, wa, wa, wa.” She dashed into green leaves and dappled sunlight. Ginger whooped in her wake as the girls disappeared into their wooded paradise.

How many days had they spent playing like that? Constance chuckled and returned to the present moment beside the trickling stream. Mama had been so busy with baby Felicity back then. Sometimes Patience played along if they stayed near the house. But the woods were all their own—the woods in the summer, the attic in the winter.

As they grew, their play turned to whispered trysts, secret lessons, and talk of boys. Mother and Father had discouraged such behavior, of course, but Gingersnap knew her own mind and would not be deterred. She should have listened. If she had, disaster might never have befallen her family. Deep down she believed it to be her fault—her fault and Sissy's. She would never live to fathom Sissy's cold betrayal on that fated night.

Tears streamed down her face. Gingersnap would have sat by the stream and pitched a royal fit. Weeping and wailing and pounding the ground until someone came to comfort her. But Constance did not indulge in such outbursts. And no one was likely to console her on this day.

So Constance tossed her wildflowers to the wind and took out a handkerchief. She blotted her tears and splashed her face with cold water from the stream. Then she climbed back on her borrowed horse, wearing her borrowed habit. The dress hung loose and was far too short. But her purpose today did not lie in fashion or even play. No, today she must accomplish a mission.

Today she would finally ride to Montgomery Manor and see the life she might have had. She would see what might have been, perhaps even allow herself one rare crying fit, and then move on for good. No more fantasy, only the hard, cold reality of the plantation she would never call home.

Robbie had business in Charlottesville today. She needn't worry about running into him. And the Beaumonts were all aflutter with preparations for the party tonight, so they had given her the day off. Mrs. Beaumont wanted the girls fresh and rested for the affair. Constance might never have a more perfect opportunity to see Robbie's home. And if Samson had explained correctly, the plantation should be over the next rise.

As she topped the hill and examined the valley below, a modest white plantation home with a verandah came into view from the side. A circular drive curled in the front before heading over the horizon. Several matching white outbuildings and a grove of fruit trees sat behind the house, and a small kitchen garden for vegetables and herbs grew on the side closest to her. She spied no ornamental garden, only a few bushes in front of the house, which might well flower come summer.

Acre upon acre of fresh tilled farmland spread past the home. She spotted no less than fifteen servants hard at work in the fields. It seemed a bit too early to set tobacco plants. Here was yet another mystery surrounding this plantation. She had come to get answers, and she would not leave without them. If Robbie found out later that she had come, then so be it.

Springing her mare back to action, Constance headed in the direction of a group of workers. As she passed the house, it seemed eerily quiet, although smoke puffed from the outbuilding she guessed to be the kitchen. All the structures needed a good coat of paint, but otherwise they seemed to be in sound repair. Robbie had mentioned not wanting to inconvenience the servants. More mystery.

“Hello, there,” she called to a barrel-chested Negro who barked out orders to his peers. “Excuse me, sir. May I enquire where your overseer is?”

“'Fraid I'm the overseer round these parts, ma'am, though most days Mr. Montgomery is about.”

“Oh.” Unusual, yet Constance understood the choice. She would have put Sissy in charge of her own home if she'd ever had the chance. “I see you're nearly ready to plant. Isn't it a bit early for that?”

“We ain't planting no tobaccy, ma'am. Not this year leastwise. We're tryin' us some corn and wheat.”

“Truly?” Constance slid off the horse. “That's rather odd, isn't it?”

“Well, seein' as Mr. Montgomery gave all his workers emancipation papers and half moved away, we had to get mighty resourceful mighty fast.”