I studied Sam’s bent head, as nonchalantly as I could.
My grandmother went on, “When I had shingles last spring, she was only too happy to take over running the meetings, and move them to the Privateer Club. Out of my hands. I should really have said something then, but I didn’t. I just felt so ill and so tired, and so much was happening, what with your father in the hospital and your brother dying and . . . well, I just didn’t feel up to doing very much of anything.”
I glanced towards the anteroom where the refreshments and the bar had been set up, with Tracy’s Veronica in charge of catering, and Gianni helping serve the food and drinks, and Rachel keeping close to him. I hadn’t thought she’d come—she was still working to reconcile with my grandmother, and was too anxious to feel comfortable in such a large crowd, but Gianni had asked her and she’d said she’d give it a try, for him.
I said, “It’s called situational depression. I think we’re all working through it, on some level.”
“That may be. Anyhow, watch what you say around Carol. With people like that, you just say what you need to, and keep the rest private.”
Advice I could take, I thought. “I’m good at hiding things.”
I heard the smile in my grandmother’s voice as she followed my gaze to Sam’s shoulders. “Not everything.”
Then, as I blushed, the musicians changed tunes and she said to the man Sam called Tiny: “George, come dance this waltz with me. And Sam, get Charley out there. She’s been wasting that dress all night.”
Sam, left alone with me, held out his hand. “It’s a nice dress.”
It seemed I’d been waiting so long to be close to him, to have him hold me, that I didn’t know how to process these feelings. They came in a rush, tumbling over each other, confusing and breathtaking. I couldn’t speak. Didn’t want to, afraid I might spoil it.
He smelled nice. He danced well. He held my hand lightly, his other hand warm at the small of my back. He felt solid and perfect and just so incredibly right.
My eyes closed. Sam folded my hand in his strong one and brought it against his chest, holding it there as he lowered his head so his jaw rested right at my temple. And for all the rest of that song and the one that came after, I drifted contentedly, letting him lead.
Lydia
She couldn’t remember the last time her father had danced.
“William’s wedding,” was Benjamin’s guess.
“Surely not,” Sarah said. They were standing with Lydia off to the side in the barn, near the table her father had roughly built only that morning, to hold food and drink for the guests that had come. “Surely there’s been occasion to dance since then.”
But they could think of none. Now they had several occasions to celebrate, all come at once.
First, the shearing was over with. That in itself would have been cause enough. And then one sunny morning a boat had arrived full of workers from Joseph’s old shipyard, to say word had reached them the Bellewether was being overhauled and they had come to help where they were able. They’d worked by day, and slept in hammocks below decks at night, and now the ship was masted, rigged, and crewed, and ready to set sail upon the midnight tide.
And that, too, would have been enough cause for this evening’s revelry, the whole crew having brought their wives and children to farewell them.
But earlier today, at dinner, Joseph had announced that he’d been offered—and was taking—a position at the shipyard. He had been advanced the wages to allow him to start work upon a small house on the land he’d purchased years ago, and which had long been waiting for that purpose, between Millbank and Cross Harbor. And when work on that was done, no later than September, he and Sarah would be married.
Sarah radiated happiness tonight, her blond hair twisted into curls and held with silver pins, her blue gown adding to the fanciful array of colour making their swept barn a match for any ballroom in New York. The men who would be sailing on the Bellewether that night were in their ordinary clothes, but Mr. Fisher and her father wore their Sunday best, as did her cousin Henry and his eldest son, who’d ridden up together for the gathering.
The women’s gowns and petticoats, in silks and printed cotton, swirled in ever shifting patterns with the music of each dance. Not having time or fabric for a new gown, Lydia had settled for her yellow one, but she had trimmed the shift she wore beneath it with soft lace that lay around the neckline in a ruffle and cascaded loosely from beneath the sleeves. She’d stitched new ribbon bows onto her slippers and her elbow cuffs, and used a matching ribbon for her hair, which she’d arranged the way she’d worn it since the day Mr. de Sabran had first smiled at her and told her it looked nice.
He wasn’t dancing. He was standing to the side, a dashing figure in his uniform. Remembering the way it had affected her last August when she’d seen his white coat in her kitchen—everything she feared and hated most, wrapped in one garment she could barely stand to touch—it seemed remarkable that yesterday, by her own choice, she’d beaten it and brushed it, using fuller’s earth and vinegar and lemon juice to sponge away the stains remaining from the riot in New York, until the coat was left as white and clean as when it had been made.
The symbolism of the gesture seemed not to be lost on him. He’d thanked her very quietly and she could plainly see that he was moved.
Tonight, it pleased her that his spotless coat made him—Canadian or not—appear more gentlemanly than Mr. de Brassart, though she had the sense he wasn’t much at ease in social settings and would rather have been anywhere than with so many people.
There were moments in the evening when she sympathized with how he felt; when the people and the music and the movement made her feel a little dizzy. But she counted it a fair exchange to see her father dancing.
For a big man, he stepped lightly and with style. His partner this song was French Peter’s wife, Mrs. Boudreau, a pretty woman with a fetching laugh that rang out frequently. Her husband had surprised them all by asking for a fiddle, and then playing it with such skill Mr. Fisher, his own fiddle raised, decided they should play together. Both the fiddles were now chasing one another up and down the tunes in lively harmony.
Returning with more cider for the table, Joseph asked, “Is Father still dancing?”
“It’s your fault,” said Lydia. “You’ve made him happy.”
Benjamin tried hard to look offended. “I thought I was the one who’d made him happy.”
“By leaving?” asked Joseph. “You may have a point.” His dry voice and the teasing light deep in his eyes were both things she had missed and thought lost, and to see them now made her heart swell even more.
The music had changed and their father, his face flushed and smiling, came over to fetch them. “Come, stop holding up the wall. We need more couples.”
Joseph obligingly took Sarah’s hand, but Benjamin said, “I’m afraid I can’t. There are a few things I still need to do before we sail.” He looked behind him but there were no men nearby except the two French officers.
Mr. de Brassart, hands raised, said, “I thank you, no. I have a knee that has never been right since Chouaguen, and tonight it is not letting me dance.”
Mr. de Sabran’s gaze slid between Mr. de Brassart and Joseph, then came back to rest on her own face. She could not tell what he was thinking, but clearly he’d understood their conversation because he stepped forward and silently offered his hand.
“There,” her father said. “There is your partner now, Lydia. Well done, sir.”