Morning Song Read online

  The music changed. The tempo grew livelier. A murmur ran around the dance floor.

  "A reel!" came the excited cry from all around them. There was a flurry of applause, and then everyone scattered, hurrying to form the parallel lines needed for this dance. Mitch looked at her with a shrug and a smile. Jessie, near giddy with relief at being spared the awful confession that she could not dance, to say nothing of the spectacle she was sure she would make of herself 69

  if she tried, managed to smile back. It was nine-tenths pure relief, but it was a smile.

  Just when Jessie was thinking that there must be a God in heaven after all, just when she was thanking her lucky stars or her patron saint or her fairy godmother or whoever it was who had arranged her salvation, Mitch grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the forming line. Other couples, laughing and chattering, fell in behind and beside them. The gentlemen lined up on one side, the ladies on the other.

  The reel was a general favorite, and this time the dancers included young and old alike. On her left was Margaret Culpepper. On her right was Lissa Chandler, a matron of about Celia's age who was the mother of four young daughters. The fiddler moved to the front of the platform and lifted his fiddle high. The announcer called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, grab your partners!" Then the announcer bowed and stepped back with a flourish. The fiddler struck up, his bow moving busily across the instrument as he scraped out the rollicking rhythm of the reel.

  As the guest of honor, Celia and Stuart were the first to skip through the laughing, clapping corridor. Watching, Jessie supposed that they looked well together. Certainly they were a study in contrasts, with Celia so blond and petite and Stuart Edwards so tall and dark. Celia's cream satin skirt belled out around her as she danced, swinging from side to side and lending her an air of unaccustomed vivacity. Her cheeks were flushed rosily, and her pale gray eyes sparkled. It was an evening of triumph for Celia, and she was clearly enjoying every moment of it. Certainly she looked prettier than Jessie could ever remember seeing her. As for Stuart Edwards—much as Jessie hated to 70

  admit it, and she did hate to admit it, in his elegant black evening clothes he was a sight to steal a female's breath away. Which only went to prove the old adage about beauty being no more than skin-deep.

  But she was obviously the only female of whatever age present who hadn't fallen under the spell of his good looks. Ever since he had arrived, the ladies had been following him with their eyes. The bolder ones had openly flirted with him, reluctantly acknowledging Celia's prior claim but still determined to try their luck. Even some of the older married ladies had given him more than one come-hither look. To his credit—and Jessie hated to acknowledge that there was anything that was to his credit, searching for an ulterior motive that would account for his circumspection—he had not seemed to accord any of them more than polite attention. He had stayed properly at his fiancée’s side all day, deflecting female silliness with a smile and a quip, while Celia showed him off like a hunter with a trophy, queening it over the other ladies because she had him and they only wished they did.

  The sight made Jessie sick, so she tried not to watch any more of it than she had to. But Celia's silent boasting and her fiancé’s deliberately charming smile were pretty hard to miss. Celia and Stuart were cheered as they came to the end and separated, moving back into line. Nell Bids-well and Chaney Dart were right behind them. With her green dress billowing and his blond hair gleaming under the light of the chandelier, they made a handsome couple. To Jessie's surprise, Miss Flora had found a partner in the widowed Dr. Angus Maguire, and that elderly couple skipped the length of the line after Nell and 71

  Chaney with as much energy as any of the young ones. They were roundly cheered, too.

  Jessie had been so caught up in the spectacle of the dance that she didn't realize it was her turn and Mitch's until Lissa Chandler high-stepped into the middle to join her husband. Seth Chandler was the heir to Elmway, and Jessie guessed that the richness of that plantation had gone a long way toward increasing the squat, balding Seth's appeal for his pretty young wife. Which meant that Lissa Chandler had married for money, just as she suspected Stuart Edwards of planning to do. But somehow it seemed different for a woman. Women were supposed to find security in their husbands, not the other way around.

  Then it struck Jessie that the Misses Edwards had said that Stuart would be their heir. Tulip Hill was not nearly so large or profitable as Mimosa, or Elm-way, for that matter, but it was certainly a respectable property. Maybe—and the thought made her scowl—just maybe, she had wronged Stuart Edwards when she had accused him of being a fortune hunter. Maybe the man was truly in love with Celia after all, impossible as it seemed.

  "Ready, Jessie—uh, Miss Jessie?" Mitch's question recalled Jessie's wandering attention. She blinked at him across the space separating them with something very near to panic. Her thoughts had been so busy that she had almost forgotten she was in line for the reel, much less that she and Mitch were next. Unless a miracle occurred within the next few seconds, she was going to have to dance down the long corridor of clapping revelers with Mitch, of all people.

  If she could even dance.

  The movement was no more than skipping with joined hands in time to the music. She could manage that. She had to, or make a 72

  fool of herself by darting out of the line. And suddenly it was very important that she not make a fool of herself in front of Mitch.

  The music was wonderful, the laughter infectious. Mitch was the boy she had swooned over in secret for years. Maybe, maybe, he was going to notice her at last. He had not seemed adverse to dancing with her, and he was smiling at her now.

  Suddenly the world did not look bleak, but bright.

  "Ready," Jessie answered, and with a beaming smile she stepped out into the center to clasp hands with the boy she'd been silently, hopelessly, in love with for years.

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  Mitch's hands were warm, his skin soft and dry. He clasped her hands strongly, smiling down into her eyes. (Funny that she'd never noticed before how much taller he was than she; perhaps he'd grown.) Just the feel of his hands holding hers made her go all shivery. Jessie flushed rosily, beamed, and somehow made it down the clapping corridor to the end of the line. The only embarrassing moment came when it was time for them to part; Jessie was so enraptured that she forgot to let go.

  The rest of the dance passed in a blur for her. She smiled, and clapped, and skipped down the corridor on cue, but her focus was entirely on Mitch. Caught in the throes of first love, she scarcely knew whether she was on her head or her toes. All she knew was that the day that had started so horribly had turned into a wonderful, magical evening. She wanted it never to end. 73

  When the reel concluded, she braced herself, sure that he would leave her. Instead he offered her his arm and led her to a chair near the French windows, which had been opened to let in the night air. The band played another tune, and couples whirled about the floor. Jessie watched them, smiling idiotically. Mitch had stayed by her side, not speaking much but there. Jessie was tongue-tied but happy.

  She supposed, dizzily, that he was in much the same state. She dared a sideways glance at him, desperate for some brilliant conversational gambit that would dazzle him. Nothing occurred to her—but he smiled at her anyway.

  "Shall I fetch you some punch?" he asked, getting to his feet. Jessie looked up at him, her eyes vulnerable with happiness, her smile wide. Truthfully, she was loath for him to leave her, but on the other hand, if he fetched her punch he would certainly return, and maybe while he was gone she could think of something to say. If she didn't talk soon, he would think her a complete ninny.

  "That—that would be nice," she managed, her fingers twisting in her lap. He grinned at her, nodded once, and was gone. Jessie watched him make his way across the crowded dance floor toward the punch bowl, and practically sagged with relief. Thank the dear Lord, she had a few minutes to come up with something to say!

&n
bsp; What did men like to talk about? Desperately she recalled the male conversation she had overheard in the minutes before dear, darling Miss Flora had summoned Mitch to her side. Could she talk about hunting, or the price of cotton?

  " . . . can't believe you let that child come out in that—that getup. She looks ridiculous!"

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  "Really, Cynthia, what do you expect me to do? She's eighteen, you know—oh, yes, she is!—and she has a closet full of lovely dresses that she absolutely refuses to wear. I certainly can't force her—why, she's twice my size and, though I hate to tell such tales of my own stepdaughter, possessed of a violent disposition that makes me quite fear her! 'Tis nothing short of a miracle that I got her to come tonight at all. I had to twist her arm, I promise you!"

  "Well, you'll certainly never marry her off while she's tricked out like that! If her mother could see her, she'd spin in her grave!"

  The speakers were Celia, of course, and Mrs. La-tow, Susan's mother. They were strolling together along the edge of the dance floor and obviously had not seen Jessie sitting in her corner. Jessie had only just realized herself that she was in a corner, partially shielded from view by the musicians' platform on one side and the tall window's billowing curtain on the other. Certainly Mrs. Latow had not seen her, and Jessie didn't think Celia had, either. Although they had only to turn their heads, and they would spy her instantly.

  The knowledge that Celia was telling lies about her did not bother her as much as Mrs. Latow's comments about her dress. Celia had lied about her for years; Jessie had given up trying to do anything about that. To defend herself from Celia's particular brand of malice was like boxing with shadows; one can't hit what one can't see. At first she'd been surprised when the neighbors had started to give her the cold shoulder, and later, when the cause became clear, hurt that they would believe Celia's tales. But then it had simply ceased to bother her. She didn't need 75

  them, any of them. She was happy with her animals and the servants for company.

  But Mrs. Latow had said she looked ridiculous. That hurt. Jessie looked down at herself, at the faded, too-tight sprig muslin with the garish ruffles at neck and hem, and knew in her heart that Mrs. Latow spoke nothing less than the truth.

  Although Mitch hadn't seemed to think so. Unless he'd merely danced with her to be kind. But she wouldn't think about that. She wouldn't.

  Celia and Mrs. Latow were still gossiping as Jessie stood up, moving carefully so as not to scrape the chair against the floor or otherwise call attention to herself. This once, she was determined not to let Celia spoil things. She was having a marvelous night, a night beyond anything she could ever have dreamed of. Mitch would be coming back soon with the punch, and she wanted to get out of Celia's way before he returned. Suppose he overheard Celia's poison, or suppose Celia joined them, as, suspecting her stepdaughter had found an admirer, she might very well do?

  Celia would somehow find a way to destroy Jessie's pleasure. She always did.

  One cautious sideways step, then another and a third, and Jessie was sliding out the French window, into the cool darkness of the rear portico. Inside, the curtain fluttered, concealing her exit. She leaned against the rough brick of the rear wall of the house and, peering around the curtain, watched through the window for Mitch. Once he came, she would step back inside. Determinedly she tried to dismiss Mrs. Latow's criticism from her mind. Perhaps Mitch was more discerning than most of the others present; perhaps he hadn't even noticed what she, or any of the rest of them, wore.

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  Just as Celia and Mrs. Latow moved on, Mitch returned with the punch. What perfect timing! Jessie smiled and almost stepped through the window again.

  Then she saw that he was not alone. Jeanine Scott was with him.

  "See, what did I tell you? She's gone. She was probably as horrified to have to dance with you as you were to get stuck with her. I'll bet she was glad to get a chance to escape."

  "She wouldn't just run off. She has to be around here someplace." Mitch looked around as though Jessie might be hiding under a nearby chair. Jeanine giggled.

  "She couldn't very well hide there. She's too big."

  "That's not very nice, Jeanine." Mitch looked reprovingly at the slender brunette. Jeanine made an apologetic grimace.

  "Oh, you're right, of course, and I'm sorry. But it was so embarrassing! There I sat, refusing all offers to dance because I said I had promised you, and then there you were, dancing with her! I had to sit the reel out, and you know it's my favorite."

  "I know." Mitch sounded remorseful. "I told you, I couldn't help it. When Miss Flora practically ordered me, what could I say?"

  "You're such a gentleman, of course. But then, I guess I wouldn't like you so much if you weren't." Jeanine fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. Pressed tightly against the outside wall, Jessie clenched her fists against the pain. Her every instinct screamed for her to walk away so that she wouldn't have to hear any more, but she couldn't move.

  "You're a flirt, Jeanine." Mitch didn't sound disapproving at all.

  "And you love it, you know you do."

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  "I can't imagine where she could have got to." With a faintly harassed air, Mitch glanced around again as if expecting Jessie to materialize out of thin air.

  "Maybe she had to retire for a few minutes. Or maybe some other gentleman asked her to dance." Jeanine sounded impatient. Mitch looked at her as she said that last, his expression clearly skeptical. Then they both laughed.

  "All right, I grant you that's not very likely. But the fact remains she's gone, and that lets you off the hook, my charming Sir Galahad. And they're playing a turkey trot. My second favorite."

  Mitch laughed again and set the cup of punch down on a chair. Then he offered his arm to Jeanine with a burlesqued bow.

  "May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Scott?"

  "You may." She dimpled, curtsied, and took his arm. Without a backward look, he led her onto the floor.

  Jessie stayed where she was, profoundly thankful for the darkness that hid her. Suddenly the unaccustomed stays were far too tight, constricting her rib cage like iron bands. She could not catch her breath no matter how she tried. The world seemed to spin, and she rested her forehead weakly against the cool brick wall. Her heart pounded, ached. With commendable detachment she thought that this must be what it was like to feel it break. Then, from behind, two hands closed over her upper arms. A voice that she instantly recognized growled in her ear.

  "If you're going to faint, for God's sake don't do it here."

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  IX

  Stuart Edwards' touch, his words, stiffened her spine enough to keep her from either fainting or throwing up, which seemed the more likely of the two fates that threatened her. He kept his grip on both her arms as he pushed her ahead of him off the portico, out of the sight of several amorous couples who had chosen to retire there for privacy and who watched the interplay between Jessie and her stepfather-to-be incuriously. Shifting his hold to one arm, he practically dragged her down the shallow flight of stairs that led to the garden, then along the cobbled path that wound through it to a secluded iron bench in the grape arbor. The bench was hidden from the view of anyone not standing directly in front of it by a trellis curtained by festoons of lacy, sweet-smelling vines. He pushed her down on the bench without ceremony, then stood in front of her, fists on hips, mouth tight and angry-looking. Jessie stared up at him, heart aching, and winced at the grimness of his face. Although if he'd been kind to her she might very well have disgraced herself forever by bursting into tears.

  Though she did not know it, her eyes, darkened to the color of bright polished walnut by hurt and incipient tears, looked huge and lost. Her face was as white as the pale moon that floated overhead.

  Her hair, as she had predicted, had been loosened from its precarious topknot by the vigor with which she had participated in the dance. It tumbled in thick disorder around her face and down her back, while indiv
idual curls caught stray moonbeams and reflected them with a glint of red. Her lips trembled, then 79

  were quickly compressed before he could detect this shaming sign of weakness. Still he scowled at her, and such obvious dislike on top of everything else was too much. Jessie shut her eyes, leaning her head against the garland of intertwining iron roses that formed the back of the bench.

  "Put your head between your knees," he ordered grimly. Trying her best to block out the memory of Jeanine and Mitch—Mitch!—laughing at her, Jessie barely heard him. With an impatient sound, he stepped toward her, spread his hand flat against the back of her head, and thrust it down past her knees. Despite her instinctive recoil, he kept her in that position by the simple expedient of curling his hand around the nape or her neck and refusing to let go.

  'Let me up! What do you think you're doing?" Taken by surprise by such rough-and-ready ministrations, Jessie tried to squirm free. But his grip was unbreakable.

  "Quit talking and breathe."

  Jessie gave up. At the moment she didn't have the strength to fight him, didn't even particularly want to fight him. Instead she went limp, obediently allowing her head to droop almost to the ground, her hair puddling on the cobblestones in front of the bench. The unruly mass of curls covered the toes of his polished boots like a mahogany blanket. The sight was curiously disturbing, and as she saw it Jessie came to life again, jerking her head up as far as she could, trying once more to break free.

  "I said breathe!"

  His hand on the back of her neck pushed her head down again. Clearly he meant to hold her there until she did as he said. Furious, Jessie quit worrying about her hair touching his boots, 80