Love in Three-Quarter Time (10 page)

This was by far the most nonsensical conversation Constance had ever partaken in. Her mind spun from the absurdity of it. She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Robert Montgomery, you gave up your right to tell me what to do long ago. Here's
my
plan. I shall befriend Lorimer because I find him fascinating. I will not take orders from you. And I will never marry, not your miller nor your man of business nor anyone else.” And that's where her temper got the best of her. “Most especially not a spoiled, heartless, arrogant fop like you!”

Constance turned on her heel, lifted her skirts, and stomped into the house on that dramatic note. She had meant to forget about Robbie, not enrage him. Although as she thought further, she found his fit rather amusing.

Never mind that. Constance had no need of a hothead like Robbie. He was changeable, temperamental, unpredictable—and a man prone to breaking hearts. She need not bear Robbie's peevishness when the thoroughly good and delightful Mr. Lorimer would be in town for several more days.

CHAPTER 12

The next morning Constance convinced the Beaumonts to let her attend Lorimer's Bible meeting with the servants. They had discovered so many common interests the evening before, and Constance wished to watch Lorimer at his duties. Circuit riders had long been thought dashing and elusive figures by the Cavendish women. Thank goodness Robbie had not come to breakfast. He would have protested for certain.

She sat upon a rough bench made from half a split log in a clearing near the slave cabins. The hard wood pricked through her skirts. She despaired snagging the thin muslin of her gown but found the makeshift furniture appropriate to the situation. The life of a slave proved hard and prickly in its entirety.

Constance surveyed the tiny cabins. Most could fit into half the downstairs of her Richmond townhouse. She regretted her complaints on that count. And the Beaumonts were kind owners who cared about the welfare of their slaves.

Shifting her focus back to the service, Constance listened to the music that had just begun. Rich voices surrounding her sang with such depth of emotion, their praises rising to the heavens and meeting God's ears, no doubt, unlike any prayer Constance had ever uttered. Patience could sing with the lilting notes of an angel, but the earthy yet spiritual tones of this congregation struck Constance's ears as the most beautiful sounds she'd ever encountered.

For a moment she let the strains wash over her, and then focused more specifically upon the lyrics.

How could they sing of joy when they lived in such bondage? Yet the expressions of rapture on their upturned faces spoke of a deep and abiding joy, the likes of which Constance had never experienced.

As they broke into the chorus, the praise they sang about began to flow through their taut bodies as well. They swayed in rhythm like trees in the wind.

Several raised their hands and waved.

A man shouted, “Glory!”

Constance's new friend, Martha, seeming overcome by the moment, stamped her feet and spun in a circle as she sang. While touched, Constance couldn't fathom worshiping God in such an exuberant and expressive manner. Church was meant to be staid and reverent, quiet and awe-inspiring in a formal, liturgical sort of way.

Wasn't it?

Keep me burning? Who on earth had written such a song? Constance had spent the past five years learning to keep her fiery emotions beneath the surface. She could not afford to let them burn. Gingersnap had sizzled and sparked, and look where it took her. Her family lost everything, and it was her fault. God had not ceased to punish her since.

Lorimer, dressed in his own buckskin clothing, caught her eye and grinned. Indeed, she should amend that last thought. For once God had allowed her one small pleasure. Lorimer had a special light in his eye that Constance longed to explore. She should ask him about the words to the song. No doubt he would have some Scripture to reference.

The man had given his life in service to others. In service to “
the least of these
” he had said, quoting Jesus. Having attended church infrequently most of her life, Constance could not quote the words of Jesus with such ease. Nor had she thought to serve those her culture said should do the serving. Yes, this Lorimer fascinated her like no other man she had ever met.

Perhaps if she studied Lorimer, learned from him, she might discover how to please God and stave off his wrath. Perhaps she could learn to live freely and lightly as Lorimer did, as the slaves surrounding her seemed to live despite their heavy lots in life. Suddenly she felt as though she was the one burdened by chains.

Although Constance could not allow herself to stamp and holler, neither would she any longer sit by the side and observe. She stood and joined the singing for the final round of the chorus.

* * *

“So what did you think?” Lorimer asked her as they followed a trail through the woods back to the house. Gingersnap Cavendish would never have been allowed to walk with a man alone like this. Not that she wouldn't have managed to anyway. But as a spinster working woman, Constance no longer worried about such strict standards as applied to young ladies seeking a society husband. Besides, if any man could be trusted with a lady's honor, it must be Lorimer.

Constance pulled a leaf from a nearby bush. She crinkled it in her fingers, somehow comforted by the snap and crunch against her skin. A relaxing herbal scent wafted over her. “They've the loveliest voices I've ever heard. And your sermon was wonderful. So full of life. Not at all like the rational speeches given by our priest in Richmond.” Yes, Constance needed to better understand this man and his inner life of faith.

“I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Perhaps you could preach at the courthouse in Charlottesville one Sunday.” Last week's sermon had nearly put her to sleep. “I can't imagine they would mind since they haven't even completed their church building yet.”

“I'm dedicated to the calling God gave me, Miss Cavendish.”

“Yes, of course, to minister to the least of these, as you explained.”

“I find that when I stay in God's will, life moves in an effortless sort of flow. Not to say I never face heartaches or challenges, but I sense I'm carried through them on his breath. Man's wisdom might mock every decision I make, but I'm content with my path.” It seemed that despite Lorimer's grounded and masculine way of moving through the woods, his mind remained in some ethereal sphere.

Constance shook her head and studied his handsome profile. “There you go again, Mr. Lorimer. Never have I met such a mystical preacher. Tell me, how did you hear God's calling? Was it an actual voice?”

He stopped and stared up through the trees to the blue sky beyond. “God is always speaking if we're quiet enough to listen. Most of the time, it's more a sense that wells from my heart than an actual voice. And often God speaks to me through his Word. Sometimes a certain phrase jumps off the page in my Bible, shimmering with light, and I know it's meant for me that day.”

Constance had never dreamed of hearing from God on such a personal level. “Is this teaching particular to a specific denomination, Mr. Lorimer?”

He laughed. “It is a biblical teaching, Miss Cavendish. But dedicated Bible study is a foundation of my belief system.”

Thoughts spun in Constance's head, but she snatched at the most pressing one. “Tell me about the song we sang today, about the oil in the lamp and the burning. I would think burning would indicate passion, and passion could only lead to sin. Why do you encourage it so in this song?”

“The song refers to the parable of the virgins. Are you familiar with it?”

“I don't recall the details, although I remember that there is such a parable.”

“Some kept their lamps filled with oil in preparation for the bridegroom, but others let them run out. Oil, incense, and fire are often used as symbols for the Holy Spirit. We need to stay on fire with his presence. Allow him to move in our lives, to burn away our flesh and fill us with his essence. We need to follow his lead and allow him to guide us through life.” Lorimer paused and studied her as if he might say more, but then thought better of it. He placed his hand on her back and ushered her down the trail.

Who was this man and how could he live in such a way? Perhaps she should begin to study the Bible on her own as he suggested, to learn whether he spoke the truth, if nothing else. And perhaps…just perhaps, she should learn to open herself to the move of the Holy Spirit—a pure and holy fire, not merely her own emotional burning.

Although on that matter, she remained confused. After spending so many years earning her own salvation—attempting to rein her inmost nature and work her way to a better life for herself and her family—she could not fathom giving up control to anyone or anything now.

* * *

Lorimer watched Constance disappear into the mammoth doors of the plantation house as if watching her walk into the jaws of hell. He had eschewed all luxuries long ago. While he knew the people in that house were as precious to God as the slaves he ministered to, he still hated to see Constance surrounded by such distracting opulence. The girl seemed confused, wounded.

While she opened up to him last night concerning so many subjects, including politics, religion, and the arts, she remained closemouthed about her life back in Prince George and the tragedy that brought her here. He would have to investigate his suspicions. But he could fill in the gaps well enough to guess that her former extravagant lifestyle tied into her pain.

He shook his head at the architectural monstrosity again. Having grown up on a prosperous farm in Maryland, he couldn't imagine why any single family would need so much space. They'd had plenty of room and earned it by their own hard work, able to relax each night, exhausted but satisfied, over his mother's award-winning blueberry pie, by a roaring hearth. And even those sparse niceties he'd given up for the pleasures of the spirit, the satisfaction of working tirelessly for God's kingdom on earth.

Would Constance ever understand? All he could do was pray for her. He knew he couldn't rush these matters. Constance would need time to consider all she'd discovered. She would ask more questions when ready. Too many people were Christian only by culture rather than through a personal encounter with Christ.

“Stay away from her, Lorimer.” Robert Montgomery came out of nowhere and interrupted his thoughts. Aggression seethed from the man.

Lorimer had never seen him that way before. “Robbie, is everything all right? Is it something to do with the cause?” Robbie had worked with him in the underground abolitionist movement for years.

“I have a different cause on my mind today. Constance Cavendish. Stay away from that woman. You have no business with someone like her.” Robbie slapped his fist against his open palm.

He didn't know this Robbie. The Robbie he considered a friend counted all men equal and lived in pursuit of that ideal. “Someone like her? A redhead? A dancer? What are you trying to say?”

“You know exactly what I mean. She's too good for you. Stay away.”

In a flash, Lorimer understood. “I didn't realize. I'll step back. You saw her first, and I don't doubt you're the better prospect—although, it's not like you to point that out.”

Robbie jerked his head. “I'm not interested. I just don't want you hanging about her. She's trouble, anyway.”

Lorimer shook his head at the tirade. “So which is it? Is she too good for me, or am I too good for her?”

Robbie appeared stymied for a moment, but then he found himself, hands shaking toward Lorimer. “She's headstrong, spoiled, and selfish. You're pure, pious, and poor. Give her up now before someone gets hurt.” Robbie's hands formed fists again.

Lorimer had no doubt who Robbie planned to see hurt. “I meant no harm. The girl's wounded. I'm reaching out to her the way I would to anyone else.” Although, Lorimer admitted to himself, if the Lord saw fit, he wouldn't be opposed to pursuing more with the charming lady of the sunset curls.

“That better be all. I'm warning you, Lorimer.” And with that, Robbie stalked away.

Robbie had meant to scare him off the girl. Instead, Lorimer found himself more intrigued than ever. He wanted to unveil the real Constance. Find out what lay beneath the mask and the pain.

If he were honest with himself, he wanted to know what sort of exceptional young woman could drive the steadfast Robert Montgomery into such a frenzy.

CHAPTER 13

After dinner that night, Constance lingered over jasmine tea with the Beaumonts. The twins had gone to prepare for a game of cards in the parlor, and Lorimer excused himself early to his room over the barn, where he preferred to stay rather than in the house.

She swished the pale brown liquid with her spoon. While she had enjoyed the brief Bible meeting with the family led by Lorimer, it hadn't come close to stirring her like the service in the woods. But Constance had no doubt these devotional times contributed to the sincere faith she had discovered in this home.

“I suppose I should join the girls.” Constance sat her cup on the satin tablecloth.

“Wait a moment, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont turned to her husband. “We have something to discuss with you, don't we, dear?”

“Go ahead, Mrs. Beaumont. We are all aware that you know your own mind.” Mr. Beaumont chuckled good-naturedly.

“Yes, then. I should like to retain your services until August. You did a fine job with our young ladies, and I look forward to watching their continued progress.”

In all that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours, Constance had forgotten her stay here remained uncertain. Her employment had not even crossed her mind. She found a smile for the Beaumonts as she knew they expected. “Oh, that's wonderful news. I'm so relieved to hear it. We shall begin their ballet training at once. Wait until thou see the difference it makes.”

“I have no doubt.” Mr. Beaumont winked at her in a fatherly sort of manner, which generated a knot of melancholy in her chest.

“Good, then. That's settled.” Mrs. Beaumont made as if to rise.

But they had not at all concluded this conversation. They never discussed her salary in these two weeks. “I'm sorry, madam. May I keep thee for another moment? I so appreciate the way thou has treated me as family, but since we are all together, might we discuss the business arrangements for my stay? I hate to mention it, but I need appropriate attire if we are to continue holding dances. I brought little with me.”

“Of course, dear. We'll have Mr. Percy see to it. I believe I offered Monsieur Molyneux a rather ridiculous sum. I would say you deserve no less. Do you agree, Mr. Beaumont?”

“I do, indeed.”

“Oh, and that reminds me.” Mrs. Beaumont gave Constance her full attention. “I hope you shall be starting the waltz soon. I've been all aflutter with anticipation.” Indeed her hand fluttered as she spoke.

“Aye, of course. Although, I've been thinking, how shall the guests learn the steps so they can participate? It isn't something one might pick up at a glance.”

“Dear me, I hadn't considered that. Maybe we'll have only a demonstration—although, that's not what I pictured. Do you have any suggestions, Miss Cavendish?”

Constance would not reveal her plan yet, for she wasn't sure if Mrs. Beaumont would be pleased to let her part from them, even for an afternoon or two a week. “I shall think on it. I'm certain that, together, we can manage something.”

And before long Constance would be the premier dance instructor of Albemarle County.

* * *

Sitting in the sunny window seat of her room upon a chintz cushion, Constance turned the worn leather Bible over in her hands again and again, although she supposed such external examination did not qualify as “Bible study” per se. She flipped it open and landed on Lamentations. “My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones.” Gracious! She did not need that sort of verse this morning. Too many already considered her an old maid despite her lineless face. She recalled the words of Jesus were found in the New Testament. Turning through the pages, she stumbled upon the book of Matthew. No, a long genealogical list did not help.

She skipped forward several chapters, and at last she found something of value. “Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy…”

She scanned down the passage until another line caught her attention. If she engaged her imagination, she could almost fancy that it shimmered as Lorimer had said. “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.”

That seemed like much to digest already. Perhaps too much. How did Lorimer conduct his study? She read back over the words, unsure how she should perceive the particulars. But she did glean an overriding theme.

Christ stood on the side of the poor and the oppressed.

That seemed to be the essence. Somehow, she did not recall hearing such a message before, although these appeared to be the words of Jesus himself. Not until she was poor and reviled had she turned her thoughts to God, and only then to dodge further wrath at his hand.

Perhaps she'd missed the point entirely. Perhaps the point was that one could better perceive and accept God when one had need of him.

Considering again the portion about mercy, she pondered her relationship with Sissy. All these years, she had heaped guilt upon herself for disobeying her father. But what of mercy? Surely she had been merciful in doing so.

Constance recalled the day she had found Sissy in her room turning over a book of Blake poems in her hand. The thirteen-year-old girl had studied the cryptic symbols, not at all unlike how Constance had studied the front of the Bible just moments ago.

“Those sure are some mighty fine letters on there, Miss Ginger.” Sissy had brushed her fingers over the textured cover. “I recognize me that there ‘c' like Cavendish.” She pointed to the word
complete
. “I suppose you know all of them letters and what they say.”

“Of course. Would you like me to read you one?” Constance took the book and opened it.

“Oh, you know I would.”

The girls snuggled together on Constance's bed as she read. “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?”

She could have quoted those favorite lines from memory, but for Sissy's sake she trailed each word with her pointer finger as she read. Although Papa had taught her that slaves did not possess the intelligence to handle such complex thought processes, she hoped Sissy might enjoy better understanding the basic mechanics of reading.

“So this one here says
fire
.” The girl pointed to the word in both places. “I done saw it twice and recollected. And look a' this one. It's got a ‘c' like Cavendish. And this starts the word
could
, so that one must have a ‘ck' sound. And I reckon that there letter on
fire
must sound like ‘ff' causin' it was at the beginning of
fearful
too, right?”

Constance stared at Sissy in wonder. She was not merely spouting rote memorization but rather seemed to comprehend the entire process of reading. Perhaps Papa was wrong, and slaves could be taught to read. Such thinking might change everything.

As Constance looked into the sharp brown eyes of her best friend, she knew she must try. They were no longer children playing at dolls in the forest, and other than boys and hairstyles they had little to discuss these days. But in that moment, she saw that Sissy's mind was like a dry sponge, screaming to absorb knowledge. Constance must at least try to teach her.

Had that not been mercy she'd shown Sissy on that day so long ago? And in the following years as she instructed Sissy in literature, mathematics, and even history in their secret attic hideaway—the same attic where she would permit Sissy, always the same size as Constance, to try on her gowns and shoes?

Mercy or folly? Her father would say folly, for certain. They must keep the servants complacent, he would insist. Constance hadn't believed him until it was too late. Without an education, without a taste of the finer things in life, Sissy would not have betrayed her. The slaves would not have rebelled.

Papa would not be dead.

It was all her fault. She should never have disobeyed. Blessed are those who thirst for righteousness, the Scripture had said. Righteous children obeyed their parents. Even she knew the Ten Commandments. She longed for righteousness now, but had missed her opportunity.

Yet, how did righteousness fit with mercy? They seemed to run at odds with one another. In retrospect, her actions might not have been merciful at all, for who knew what horrors Sissy endured away from the loving care of the Cavendishes.

This Bible study habit was not for the faint of heart. It evoked such intense thoughts and more than a little confusion. But at least she had made an attempt. When Lorimer returned she would ply him with questions. Knowing him as she did already, Constance suspected he might say mercy prevails in such cases.

She whispered a quick prayer for guidance as she proceeded with her day, then laid the Bible on her bed stand. Lorimer would be so proud of her. Proud? She seemed to recall God did not encourage pride. Neither did the emotion fit those he might bless from the passage. She did so long for God's blessing upon her life. Pleased. Yes, Lorimer would be pleased.

Changing into her dance slippers, she headed down to the ballroom for the morning's instruction. Today, they would begin ballet.

* * *

“All right, ladies, now back to first position.”

Several days after her first attempt at Bible study, Constance observed the twins' attempts with their ballet exercises. Both girls held the basic stance: toes out, heels together, hands in a circular shape to the front. They lacked, however, finesse. “Molly, marionette strings from your head, please. Dolly, soft elbows as if you hug a wash barrel.”

Molly giggled. “Miss Cavendish, I'm sure she's never hugged a wash barrel.”

“Then I suggest you use your imaginations before I run and fetch one.”

The girls both laughed at her teasing threat.

“I'm growing stiff from standing still so long.” Dolly blew a curl from her eye. “Might we do some actual dancing today?”

They'd spent the past few days conquering the basic five positions of ballet and walking across the checkered marble floor with the grace of princesses.

Constance put her hands to her hips. “Through ballet we create a dancer from the inside out. When you can maintain the proper shape, then we shall move. Your walks improved dramatically today. Let's try some simple
pliés
and
relevés
in this position. A bend of the knees. Observe how they open to the sides and create a diamond.” She pulled her skirts tight and did her best to demonstrate. They had chosen their loosest, shortest morning dresses for the training, but still it could be a challenge to detect the proper form in the knees with such clothing.

The girls attempted the maneuver, and as she expected, poked their rears out behind them.

“No, no, no.” She sounded like Molyneux of a sudden. “Like so. Imagine you are traveling up and down in a tube and must keep your body in a straight position. Head over hips over feet.”

The girls tried again with more success.

“Now pulling your stomach inward and holding it strong as we discussed, rise gently on your toes…and back down.”

They repeated the variation of
relevés
and
pliés
several times to her counts. How nice it would be if Mrs. Beaumont could accompany them on an instrument, but the spoken rhythm worked well enough. “Good, now hold in
relevé
and balance. Hands overhead in high fifth position, please.”

To her shock and delight, mayhem did not ensue.

“
Derrière
in, Dolly,” called Mrs. Beaumont, although Dolly's position showed marked improvement.

“Lovely!” Constance clapped when they completed the exercise. “Tomorrow we shall attempt it holding a chair for a ballet barre and add more complexity to the sequence.”

“Now might we move from this spot, Miss Cavendish?” Dolly begged, clasping her hands together and shaking them before her plump face.

Perhaps there was something to be said for actual physical exertion. Although the girls were not unacceptably round, they would move far lighter on their feet with less excess weight. They had trimmed down a bit in the last two weeks, and a few more pounds would not hurt.

“Fine,” Constance said, moving in front of the girls. “But tomorrow you shall
plié
,
relevé
, and
tendu
until your
derrières
ache.” The girls giggled again.

“Let's work on the
pas de bourrée
. It is similar to a step we used in the country dance and the basis upon which we shall later build the waltz.”

“Oh, brilliant!” Mrs. Beaumont called from the corner, laying aside her novel. She clapped her hands together. “Now we arrive at the good stuff.”

Constance turned to her and smiled. “I assure thee, Mrs. Beaumont, it is all the good stuff—although this shall no doubt be more enjoyable to watch.”

She demonstrated the basic down, up, up movement in a side-to-side pattern. When she turned to observe, the girls did not fumble, but continued the step. “Very nice, although you must strive to maintain the posture we've worked on all day and the point of the toes.”

Both girls made the adjustments while they danced. “Good.” Far from perfect, but as good as could be expected. Constance turned to the front again. “Now let's travel it by continuing the side-to-side step but moving forward like so.” The twins followed her about the room several rotations with the graceful, gliding steps in three-quarter time.

“Molly, toes out, please,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “and, Dolly, chin up and tilting with the motion as Miss Cavendish's.” Constance bit back a smile. She supposed the woman paid her enough to interfere as much as she liked.