Love in Three-Quarter Time (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

Finally, in the afternoon on the third day, they pulled through the stone-and-iron gates, then up a long winding drive. Once past a grove of trees, it came into view. White Willow Hall. To the right, she spied its namesake, weeping slim leaves over a small pond. With the home's brown brick structure, soaring white columns, and ornamental dome upon the roof, it must have been built in the style of the nearby Monticello.

Though thankful to have arrived, she still had not decided if she should ask Trader Jack to stay while she made her inquiries. If he waited for her outside, it would be all too easy for Mrs. Beaumont to send her packing. But if she truly was rejected, she would hate to be stranded miles from Charlottesville with only a few coins in her reticule.

Perhaps the best recourse would be to ascertain whether a dance teacher had been hired before sending Jack on his way.

As they pulled in front of the elegant portico, a tall, efficient-looking maidservant bustled past with a large jar of preserved apples in hand.

“Excuse me, miss,” Constance called.

The brown-skinned woman stopped and shot Constance a curious look from beneath her beige kerchief.

“Pardon me,” Constance tried again.

“Yes'm,” the woman said, looking Constance straight in the eye. Her earnest brown stare reminded Constance of Sissy.

In that moment, all Constance's resentment toward Sissy slipped away, and she sensed she had found a friend in this woman. “Do you work in the house?”

The woman's chin tilted up an inch, revealing a slim column of smooth mahogany. “I sure enough do. How can I be helpin' you, ma'am?”

“Do you know if the Beaumonts have secured a dance instructor for their daughters yet?”

“Mercy! I wish you could hear Mrs. Beaumont going on some about that hoity-toity French dance teacher and when's he a comin' from Richmond. And who does he think he is.” She swiveled her head to glance about and then lowered her voice. “Between you and me, I don't think he'll ever be comin'.”

“Wonderful.” Constance snatched up her reticule and valise from among the sacks in the back of the wagon. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”

“Welcome, ma'am. You seem a right kindly sort. Have you come for a visit?”

“That I have.”

“I'll be sure to serve you up an extra big helpin' of apple pie tonight.” She motioned to the jar she was carrying.

“That would be delightful. I think I'm going to like it here.” Constance gave the woman a sincere smile. “Lovely to have made your acquaintance, miss.”

The servant shook her head in amazement and walked off mumbling. “Just when you think you got them white folks all figured out. Mercy!”

Constance sprang from the wagon with a young girl's energy that she hadn't felt in years. She bid farewell to Jack and Dancing Waters, heeding Jack's instruction to find his friend Minnie back in Charlottesville if matters somehow went awry.

With a hearty, “Yah,” Jack cracked the whip. The horses turned on the circular drive and trotted away along with her last link to Richmond and her family. Constance waited until they passed the tree line before mounting the stairs to the giant White Willow Hall. The moment of truth had arrived.

Bracing herself and attempting to slow her racing heart, she lifted the knocker and tapped several times. A moment later one of the massive double doors opened, and a handsome Negro in a garnet frock coat and white gloves emerged. “May I help you, miss?”

* * *

“Coming!” Patience hollered from the kitchen and rushed toward the front of the house. Once upon a time their butler welcomed callers. Not that they received many visitors these days. She pulled open the door to reveal a grinning Mr. Franklin with pie in hand. The sugarcoated dessert smelled of baked cherries.

He glanced around either side of her. “Good day, Miss Cavendish. Is your sister, Miss Constance Cavendish, available?”

Patience held in her chuckle. Mr. Franklin continued to search the house for the object of his affection and never bothered to look at her in her loveliest white frock sprigged with pink rosettes. “I'm afraid she's not here, Mr. Franklin. In fact—”

“Dear me.” Mr. Franklin now directed his full attention on her. “I had thought to offer this pie a student gave me in hopes that she might ask me to dinner to share it.” His sweet face, pleasing in a bookish and bespectacled sort of way, fell into a sad puppy dog expression as he held the confection before her.

Patience's heart clutched in her chest. She reached for his arm and pulled him through the door. “Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Franklin. We could use company. We've all had a difficult week.”

“Difficult? What is it, Miss Cavendish? Might I offer some assistance?” He settled himself onto the settee Patience indicated.

She took the pie from his hands and laid it on the side table, then perched herself on the edge of a velvet armchair across from him. “Well, I'm glad you are seated, Mr. Franklin, for I have some troubling news to share with you. Constance is no longer in residence here. She has traveled with Trader Jack to Charlottesville in hopes of finding employment as a dance instructor.”

“Never say so!” Mr. Franklin added an extra dash of outrage to his favorite phrase.

“I'm afraid it's true. And she went with my full support.”

“What of your mother, your little sister, Grammy?”

“We didn't actually tell them until after the fact. You see, Mother wished to send a letter first to secure the position, but—”

“She doesn't even know if she has the job?” He stood and began to pace the room while running his fingers through his soft, brown hair. Color exploded and settled into pleasant pink splotches in the center of each of his cheeks just above his mutton chops.

Patience had never seen Mr. Franklin riled so. She had, in fact, not known him capable of such passion. “I'm certain she will obtain the position. The Beaumonts are desperate for a teacher. Their daughters should be coming out into society this year. They wanted Molyneux, but of course he can't be bothered. Our mothers are friends, and the eldest son even courted Constance years ago.”

At the word
courted
the pink flush on Franklin's face faded to deathly pale. “She's gone to see an old beau?” He sank back onto the settee, looking as though he might be ill.

“No, no. I assure you. It's nothing like that. They parted ways long ago. Constance and I merely decided it was best she go before they find someone else.”

He took a deep breath. “I see.”

Patience rather liked this side of Mr. Franklin. If only he would direct such passion toward her instead of Constance…She would not be at all opposed. He thought himself in love with Constance, but the woman he fancied was not the real Constance at all. Merely a mask she had worn since their lives fell apart.

Now, Patience and Mr. Franklin did in truth have much in common. They were both logical rationalists, and both had a mind for business and education. Patience did not understand what Franklin saw in Constance. While Patience's practical nature ran straight to her core, Constance's attempt to imitate such a personality left her rather cold and rigid.

Perhaps therein lay the allure. The enigma. The mystery. Being a man of science, maybe Mr. Franklin desired to solve this conundrum.

What he didn't realize was that they would never be suited. And while Constance might go to great lengths to save her family, being the emotional creature that she remained deep down, she would never sacrifice love.

Patience desired love as well, but being of a more reasonable nature, she could choose to love a wealthy man as easily as a poor one. While Mr. Franklin earned only a moderate income, in their present circumstances he would do quite nicely. And no one cared for and accepted her family like he did. The Cavendish women might be lovely, but they were not beauties on a scale to overcome the stigma of Papa's treachery.

He stood and began to pace once again. “So how is everyone taking it?”

“Mother is fretting. Grammy is grumpy. And Felicity hasn't stopped crying since Constance left.”

As if on cue, Felicity wandered into the room like a ghost. Only her sniffling gave her away. “Have you checked the post yet?”

“Sweetie,” said Patience, “I'm sure she's only just arrived. We can't expect news so soon.”

Felicity blinked her red-rimmed eyes several times and sniffled once again. “Oh, Mr. Franklin, I hadn't noticed you were here.” She seemed to pull herself together for his sake, dabbing her face with a handkerchief and digging out a smile before dropping to the settee.

Mr. Franklin sat beside her and took Felicity's hands in his own, paying no heed to her moist handkerchief. “Never fear, little one. Things will turn out fine. I'll go fetch her myself, if need be.”

Something in his firm tone told Patience he meant every word. She could imagine him using such a voice with his more recalcitrant students. Yes, she definitely liked this side of Mr. Franklin. Perhaps she should seize this opportunity to turn his affections in a new direction.

CHAPTER 5

Constance tapped her foot against the costly oriental carpet in the sitting room of White Willow Hall. The rhythm of her toes matched the flapping beat of butterfly wings in her stomach. When the butler had led her past the formal parlor to this more casually appointed room, she realized she was not to be treated as company. Years had passed since she'd set foot in such a grand home, and always before she had been received as an honored guest. Now she had come seeking employment, yet she intended to draw upon the old acquaintance between Mrs. Beaumont and her mother.

Already, she found herself on dangerous footing.

“A dance instructor, you say?” The words filtered from the hallway. “A woman? I sent for no woman. I want Molyneux and no one else. This is of the utmost importance. My daughters simply must be trained by the very best. What sort of trick does he think to play on me?”

“Perhaps you can speak with her to find out.” The suggestion came in the low tones of the butler.

“I suppose I'll accomplish nothing by fretting in the hallway.”

“Indeed, ma'am.”

The door burst open in a rather unladylike fashion that hinted manners might be more relaxed this far west. “Miss Cavendish, I presume?”

Constance stood to her feet. “Yes, madam.”

“I am Mrs. Beaumont. Precisely what is the meaning of all this?” Mrs. Beaumont stood several inches shorter than Constance, yet the plump, pretty brunette of middle years struck fear in her heart. The woman wore an elaborate day dress of tawny muslin—costly, even if a few years behind the trends. Constance resisted the urge to cover the meticulously repaired cuffs of her own dress, although she did shift to better hide her boots.

Somehow, someway, she must ingratiate herself to this woman. In that moment it came to her. The Yorkshire accent. Broaden the vowels and flatten the ‘a' sound as in the word
dance
. Nothing too plebeian, of course. Merely a hint. And thus the decision was made. “I have…I 'ave brought thee a correspondence, madam,” Constance said in some conglomeration of Mother's and Grammy's speech. She attempted to still her trembling fingers and offered the envelope from her reticule. “Perhaps this shall explain adequately the situation at 'and.”

Mrs. Beaumont took it while eyeing her.

Had Constance gone too far in dropping the consonants from her speech? Might she sound too low class for such a position? She must amend the situation at once and hope Mrs. Beaumont attributed her lapse to nerves.

“We shall see.” Mrs. Beaumont sat upon a cushioned sofa but did not motion for Constance to join her.

Scanning through the letter, her features relaxed. “Cavendish. Oh yes. I remember. Lovely woman, your mother. She came from England just a few years after me.” She read through to the bottom of the page. Then she looked up at Constance and surveyed her appearance for a moment.

“So you are an expert dancer.” Her pretty face twisted a bit. “But I still don't understand why you've come here. I sent for Molyneux and only Molyneux. My girls simply must have the best. Has Molyneux referred you in his place? I would have expected a man, at the very least.”

Yorkshire, Yorkshire
, Constance reminded herself, already regretting her charade. Would she spend the next several months struggling to remember? “I must speak the truth, madam. I am barely acquainted with Monsieur Molyneux, but I heard of thy plight through his telling. This I will assure thee, however. I have seen Molyneux's pupils, and I can do a superior job with thy daughters. I myself was trained by a French instructor of the highest caliber, and I hold in my possession the secret for turning out the very finest dancers.”

Mrs. Beaumont's eyes lit up. “A secret, you say? For turning out dancers even better than Molyneux can turn out dancers?” She squealed and clasped her hands together. “Oh I love a good secret. Do tell!” She batted her lashes as she waited expectantly.

“I have two words for thee, Mrs. Beaumont.” Constance took care to flatten the “a” in the word
have
. “Ballet training. Molyneux teaches only the dance steps themselves. But in France, noblewomen study ballet forms to build a dancer from the inside out, taking them to the very heights of fine society. Under my expert tutelage your daughters will eat and breathe grace, and before long they shall be executing even the simplest country dances with the flair of European ballerinas.” Constance couldn't say for certain where her confident speech had come from, except that she believed every word to be true.

“European ballerinas, you say.” Mrs. Beaumont fluttered her hand. “But I had my heart set on Molyneux, a true dance master.”

“He's not coming. About that he was most adamant. Thou should receive a letter soon bidding thee and the girls to travel to Richmond for instruction.”

“Richmond! That uppity Frenchman dares to bid me hither and thither? Me, the wife of one of the wealthiest plantation owners in Albemarle County? The nerve of that man. I think not.”

She paused a moment, studying Constance once again as she stood clutching her reticule. “Do have a seat, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont gestured to a straight backed wooden chair to her right.

Constance would have sighed with relief if she had dared.

“You have the most charming accent by the way. Yorkshire, isn't it? I do so miss England. Why I'd be tempted to hire you merely to hear it for the next few months. But I cannot make this decision alone. Samson! Samson!” she called.

The butler entered the room. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Fetch Mr. Beaumont and the girls at once. And send Martha with tea and biscuits while we wait. I have so many questions for Miss Cavendish.” He left, and Mrs. Beaumont turned back to Constance. “For example, how have you come to need such employment? As I recall, your family was quite well-to-do, and your mother mentioned you were the belle of the ball in your own day.”

So she hadn't heard.

The butterflies ceased their dance in Constance's stomach. She had practiced an answer for this question that would be truthful but vague. “I am afraid my father passed on, leaving our estate in utter disarray. We never did recover. Even after we sold the plantation, most of the funds went to his creditors.” Creditors, gambling buddies, people he'd swindled. Whichever way, the money had vanished.

“I'm so sorry to hear it, Miss Cavendish. That must have been hard on your sweet mother. Perhaps she and your sisters can come for a visit if you stay. But first things first. We shall see you dance and assess from there.”

Evidently the Yorkshire accent worked its magic just as mother suspected. Now to prove herself as a dancer.

* * *

An hour later, with some bracing tea in her system and satin slippers on her feet, Constance stood toe to toe with Mr. Beaumont, about to demonstrate a
gavotte
for the family. Molly, a younger version of her mother, waited at the fortepiano, ready to accompany them. Her twin, Dolly, sat by Mrs. Beaumont to the side of the huge ballroom, eager to observe the performance.

As Molly struck the first chords, Constance nodded to the dashing Mr. Beaumont. His brown eyes twinkled beneath his gray hair. He bowed, and she curtseyed to him. Then he swiveled a quarter turn and offered his hand in the air for Constance to rest hers upon.

As they proceeded through the gliding steps, Constance added her own special flair as she'd learned so well from Mademoiselle Cartier. The extra light brush of her toe, the gentle slope of her pinky finger, the tilt of her head to accent each
pas de bourrée
.

As she released Mr. Beaumont's hand to perform a circular pattern, she passed close enough by the women to catch snippets of their whispers.

“So high on her toes.”

“Lovely posture.”

And even, “How does she achieve that shape with her hands?”

She joined Mr. Beaumont for a spin in the center. A few inches taller than most women, Constance considered herself the perfect height for dancing. She could see into her partner's eyes without craning her neck and fit nicely into any hold. In fact, she and the small Mr. Beaumont were of a similar stature.

Molly played with skill, and before long, Constance lost herself in the lovely strains. She no longer labored over technique and steps, but floated through the dance upon a cloud of music, entering the magic of the moment. The room turned a blur of color and light, gold walls swirling with garnet curtains and blue horizon.

Time slipped away, and she danced.

As she took her final curtsey, boisterous applause erupted from the room, waking her from the trance. Even Mr. Beaumont next to her clapped and called out, “Bravo!”

Mrs. Beaumont rushed to Constance and took her hands. “Your mother spoke the truth in her letter, my dear. No doubt you had all the young bucks of Prince George County under your spell.”

The girls joined the group and bounced clumsily about them. “We must hire her, Mummy.”

“Oh, please.”

Constance must learn to tell them apart. For now they would be the girl in the pink and the girl in the blue.

Mr. Beaumont gave a final clap. “I've never seen such divine dancing.”

“Now, now.” Mrs. Beaumont fluttered her hand and giggled. “Girls, do settle. Mr. Beaumont, I agree she is divine. But good dancing does not necessarily translate to good teaching, and I retain my reservation about hiring a female. I say we give her a week's trial. Today is Saturday. Next week we shall hold a small party for a few neighbors to see what she's done with the girls. Then we shall decide.”

One week to whip these gawky, heavy-footed young ladies into shape. They seemed pleasant enough to work with but moved like farm girls from what she'd seen thus far. “Oh Mrs. Beaumont, I shall do my utmost. But ballet training requires months, years even, to take effect.”

“Well, then we must hurry, for I've already scheduled their coming out ball for August, just a few weeks after their sixteenth birthday. It's to be accompanied by a picnic, an all-day event. We'll have guests from several counties.”

However could Constance get these girls ready for a party in one week? This was April! How could she prepare them to enter society in a mere four months? The schedule would not allow her as much time as she wished to make acquaintances in Charlottesville either.

She simply must rise to the occasion and work with all due haste. If only she could be delivered from the distracting presence of one Mr. Robert Montgomery, she might find a way to manage.

* * *

Thankfully, being so far in the country, the Beaumonts did not dress for dinner. They'd invited her to eat with the family along with the overseer, and she would need her one evening gown next week. For now she'd changed into a fresh, white muslin dress with a scooped neck. Years ago, Mother had added a thick lavender sash to lower the waist nearer to the latest style, but then the trend had changed to a waist just beneath the bust this season and to a higher, wider skirt this dress could never attain. Constance surrendered. The dress would simply have to suffice.

Taking one last moment to run her hand along the textured black-and-white pattern of the wallpaper in her appointed bedchamber, Constance sighed in delight. Mrs. Beaumont had insisted on housing her more as a guest than a servant for the sake of her mother. And if Constance didn't know better, she would think she had finally come home. So much space, open and bright from the massive windows.

Stepping into the expansive hallway, Constance stretched her arms wide and breathed in the scent of magnolias. For a moment all her issues with high society and plantation life vaporized into the air as she danced her way along the polished hardwood floor. Her steps melted into the soothing three-four cadence of the waltz. She spun around the corner toward the mammoth curving stairwell.

And there crashed against a solid object in the center of the hallway.

She let out a most unladylike shriek, echoing back to her hoyden days. Still dizzy from spinning and reeling from the collision, she couldn't make out the obstruction blocking her path. Strong hands grasped her forearms and steadied her before she toppled. The feel of them brought comfort and warmth, as if Prince Charming had come to whisk her away to the ball. The last time she experienced such a sensation was when…She shoved the thought away.

But as the haze cleared, she looked up into a pair of stunning blue eyes precisely as she had on that fateful evening long ago. “You!”

A sardonic smile lit Robbie's face. “You. I heard from the twins that a Miss Cavendish had come from Richmond. I thought surely it must be someone else.” He chuckled, although not entirely with mirth. A smear of dirt accented the hollow under his chiseled cheekbone. Once upon a time, Constance would have brushed it away.

He raked grimy fingers through his disheveled black hair, still as silky and waving as she remembered it. “But of course it is you. Who else would come barging around a corner so, as if the world must part way like the Red Sea to let her eminence pass?”

“I…I…” She did not know what to say to that. Gingersnap, belle of the ball, deserved such an indictment. But Constance had changed.

He laughed again, this time more of a snicker. “I thought as much. Not all of us stand at your beck and call, Madam Temptress. Your spell over me was broken long ago.”

How dare he stand in this hall and mock her? He was the one who abandoned her—in her hour of need, no less. Seething anger seeped through her veins. That emotion, she could manage. Constance found her words. “Broken along with my bank account?”

“If only you knew.” He shook his head.

In his eyes she spied…sadness? Disappointment? She did not know what to make of that. “I'm sorry to intrude upon you, sir. This is a shock to both of us, I assure you. I assumed you would be at your own plantation—or gone as usual.”

“I recently returned. And I'm staying here as you can see. Mother wrote that a dance master would be coming, but I assumed him a man and had no idea it might be an old…acquaintance. I should know by now to correspond with Mary about such issues. Mother would leave her head on the nightstand if not for Mary's charts and schedules.”