My Name is Resolute

I knew not how to respond, so I smiled and curtsied. His words left me unnerved. Had I given him some indication that I welcomed such a remark about my person? Was it so obvious that I missed my husband, that any rake who meant to take his chance felt he could woo me with delicate words? I felt more distressed than flattered by him, and sought to disappear from his view then, weaving through people until I found Amelia Spencer.

 

I sat by Lady Spencer and tried to forget about Wallace. Everywhere, the slaves in livery performed as clockwork soldiers, wound up, in their white wigs and gloves, their handsome tailcoats unmoving though they hurried from one end of the ballroom to the other. A young woman with wide eyes and long lashes carried a silver tray to and fro, collecting empty glasses and saucers with fragments of food. The music played. Instead of being a lady and having every whim catered to, or aching at a loom, I imagined myself trussed and powdered, made to carry sherry glasses as if they were the crown jewels. Was there a goat-beating stick somewhere in a barn? A cat-o’-nine-tails hungry for any hint of impropriety? I knew how hard it was to obey as an obstinate little girl. What made a grown and brawny man take on as if he waited upon a king for every guest? What scourging awaited the slightest wrong move? Were these men so happy to be escorting ladies to a coach, rather than sweating in a cane field as my pa had kept them, that they performed like courtiers? What did that say about my father? I loved him still, but it had been an enormous plantation. What inducement made them work?

 

“Are you tired, my dear?” Amelia asked.

 

“I was deep in thought. Old memories. Such a grand affair, this. It reminds me of when I was a child, and that of course reminds me of my parents, now gone.”

 

“I wish my Edward were here to enjoy life with me, too. It helps me to think that he is here, just lost in the crowd somewhere, brought by my memories and love. Perhaps you could think of them that way, and not let so much sadness rest upon the day.”

 

I smiled. “You are right, Amelia. And you are remarkable. I shall do as you suggest.” If I could keep my mind on the time and place before me, I thought. But, though I made effort to appear engaged with the dancers, applauded the music, and smiled, I lived for a while that evening in a house on Meager Bay. My mother was somewhere in the crowd, a beaming hostess. Pa would be dancing with Patey across the room.

 

Late into the evening, I saw the serving girl again. She looked as before, her face a mask of stone. Upon her tray, a single crystal goblet stood in the center, and she was abruptly forced to wait in front of me as dancers twirled past. Once they moved on, she stepped forward, right into two young men jostling each other, coming from one of the side rooms. The tray tipped. The goblet hit the floor with a crash just as the orchestra stopped. Eyes turned this way. Horror filled the girl’s face. I stood and stepped over the goblet, forced myself to bump into her then move to one side. “Oh, la!” I cried out. “I have dropped my sherry. Please do fetch me another, would you? Here”—I pushed at the broken glass with my toe—“someone will have to sweep this up, too.”

 

Another slave appeared with a small dustpan and a brush. The girl looked into my eyes for just a split second, then lowered her long lashes and said, “I will send it immediately, Mistress.” I heard Jamaica in her words.

 

Gwenny approached, her arm upon August’s, her face flushed and moist with perspiration. “Mother? I should like to go outdoors and cool off. Uncle says I must not.”

 

I said, “That would harm your health, Gwyneth. It is bitter cold outside.”

 

She curtsied, laughed, and changed her tack. “Uncle August is quite a gallant. He knows all the dances. I will have no problem now with any of them.”

 

“Is that so?” I asked, turning to him.

 

August said, “It is only to save her from the rubble at this party. Not a one of them suitable as a potential husband for her.”

 

“Oh, Uncle! I quite enjoyed speaking with Mr. Hallowell and Mr. Hancock. Did you see him, Mother? Mr. Hancock? The dandy young man in the cream coat?”

 

“I believe I have seen him,” I said. I saw in her face the longing I had felt when first I loved a young man already in his grave.

 

“Oh, Ma, there are only three more dances. I could dance until the sun comes up!” Almost as if on her words, the young man with unruly hair approached us. I recognized the young John Hancock. Without the wig he had worn before, he seemed younger still. His cream-colored clothes were expensive, despite his somewhat comical hair arrangement. As he bowed and asked her for a dance, I decided that the hair gave him a look of startlement, and I felt a sense of pleasure and amusement as they went to the floor. Then I accepted my brother’s hand and danced a minuet during which I was astonished at his gracefulness. When it was done, I hugged him and kissed his cheek, so happy was I to have him home again.