Michael pulled at the stiff collar of his shirt, and swallowed hard as the Jacobses and him climbed the stone steps leading to the three-story u-shaped home before him. Mrs. Jacobs looped her arm through his, a full smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.
“Come, Michael. You must learn to interact with those from all classes.”
Yes, but why did he have to meet those way above his station? They would only look down at him when he made social mishaps and he would make many.
Michael walked into the parlor and gazed around at all the dancing couples swirling in a mass of intricate moves - moves he could never replicate. Large rugs or as the ton called them, tapestries filled the walls as if they needed warmth. Various platters of fruit, quiches, scones and other delicacies filled a large table off to the side. How much of that food wouldn’t be consumed and thrown into a trash heap tomorrow? He imagined at least half of it. So much waste.
They had arrived late. A ploy of the Jacobs to help him smoothly transition into mingling with the guests instead of being announced by the butler, which would turn every eye on him. For some reason, they’d insisted he come to this party. It was as if they wanted to open him up to a world he had been denied. But why would it matter if the poor child of African missionaries spent a night dancing with the London elite, who only came to this party to catch glimpses of the backward Americans as they called them?
Mrs. Jacobs dragged him into the middle of the parlor and began introducing him to one young girl after another. Girls in silk gowns, and braided frocks who would never be content to live in a log cabin. They smiled and lowered their lashes. A girl with deep brown eyes flipped open her fan, batting it, right before she hiccupped. A strong scent of spirits filled the space between them.
Michael shook his head. He needed air. “Excuse me,” he said.
The girl just nodded and turned to bat her eyelashes at another young gent in attendance.
Maybe he could find a library. Michael clasped his hands behind his back and slipped out of the parlor. He walked down the long hallway, just in time to catch a giggling couple slip into a room. Michael shook his head and continued on. Weren’t ladies supposed to be pious? Yet, sin crawled in every nook and cranny of England. He would write that down later and use it during a sermon.
An angry rumble flowed from a room making Michael stop in his tracks. What was that? He turned to a closed door, focusing on the gold handle.
“The color is one belonging to women of the night. Never wear that color again.”
“I don’t understand. My....”
“May, you will heed my demands.”
“Yes, dear. I had better get to the ball.”
Michael took a step back and leaned against the wall as the door opened. A lone woman with auburn curls flowing down her back walked out, clutching the sides of her burgundy dress. Michael swallowed hard as something warm filled him.
The skirt of her dress swayed with her motions, displaying full curves. Could her front look as beautiful as the back? Michael shook his head. He best not let his thoughts linger on her even if he wanted to take her elbow, stopping her so he could whisper that she looked like an angel and not the wanton woman the man inside claimed she was.
Her accent sounded like Mrs. Jacobs’. She must be one of the many American Southerners who escape to England and other places during the summer. The ones being held up for mockery tonight.
Michael followed her into the parlor glancing at several couples dancing. He spotted the young lady as she flew through the glass doors. Where was she heading? Every part of him wanted to follow her to the courtyard and offer her words of comfort. But if he did, by tomorrow his and the lady’s name would be linked together in many scandalous tales.
Michael walked towards the Jacobses and listened as their conversations centered on how well their plantation in North Carolina fared. They so desperately wanted others to realize a plantation could be profitable despite paying their help. It would take a Moses to intervene. He had often told them such.
The young woman returned and approached a group sending that strange warmth through him again. She was beautiful with finely chiseled features, and long auburn curls laying across her cheeks. Why was he so drawn to this girl? Was it the way she tipped her nose in the air as if she didn’t care what others thought? No, that couldn’t be it. But something pulled on him, as if a deep understanding had awakened in him. He had only felt this understanding one other time, right before the Lord called him to the ministry. But that couldn’t be it. No, he must be wrong.
“That is Miss May Lynn Whitley.” Mrs. Jacobs tapped his shoulder with her fan.
Michael snapped his gaze in her direction. Miss She was not yet saddled to that bore who berated her earlier. Still for him to speak to her in such a way they must be engaged. But what did he care? He wasn’t looking for a wife. And he would never be a fool to pursue a girl above him in class.
Mrs. Jacobs’ chuckles filled his ears. “Everyone notices her beauty. Even the stalwart Michael Thompson.”
Even the stalwart Michael Thompson. Was he that much of a stoic? Michael shook his head. He turned and spotted the pretty belle and a tall blond man headed their way. A jolt pounded through him. Dear Lord, she looked right at him, with a full smile stretching across her face accenting her emerald eyes. Michael swallowed hard, feeling his Adam’s apple bob, as the couple stopped in front of them.
The Jacobses’ small group turned to them as the man stepped to Mr. Jacobs’ side and held out his hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, I am so glad you could come,” the man said.
“Hello, Mr. Crumin. Miss Whitley, it’s a delight to be your guest,” Mr. Jacobs said, nodding towards both of them.
The young girl looked Michael’s way - a slight pinkness covered her cheeks. Every part of him tensed as her eyes roamed him up and down. He had never seen such beautiful emerald eyes almost the color of the sea at the southern tip of the African continent. Not one trace of her face bore witness of the argument he had heard earlier. How easily people could slip behind a facade.
“Oh excuse me.” Mr. Jacobs extended a hand towards him “This is Michael Thompson. He is visiting with us before he journeys back to his birthplace of North Carolina.”
“We’re from North Carolina, just vacationing in Dorset,” Mr. Crumin said. “Isn’t it a beautiful state?”
Michael recognized the voice. So it was him who had berated the girl. He should compliment her dress shoving the insult in the fool’s face, but that would be beyond acceptable. “Sir, I have no memory of it. I spent most of my life in Africa and the last four years at a seminary school in England. Now I plan to return and work at a church in the mountains near a town called Henderson.”
Miss Whitley opened her fan and fluttered it in front of her face, peeking over the device.
“Then you have been robbed of its magnificence.” Mr. Crumin raised his glass.
Mr. Thompson raised his glass to Mr. Crumin’s. “And I can’t wait to see it.”
Miss Whitley glanced at something behind him. He turned just in time to see the girl who smelled of spirits stumble before her dance partner caught her, righting her. Michael turned back to Miss Whitley.
“Miss Whitley, do you enjoy dancing?” he asked, looking at her, their gazes connecting.
Her bottom lip dropped. She quickly averted her gaze. Michael rubbed his chin. Was there something embarrassing on his face? He felt nothing - maybe he had something in his teeth. He ran his tongue over their smooth surface, feeling nothing.
A red blush covered her pale cheeks. “I like the movement of it. I guess you could say I enjoy studying things.”
Mr. Thompson placed his hands behind his back. “My mother taught me and some of the village girls to dance. She said it was a skill I would need in order to attract a young lady.”
“Young ladies do enjoy it,” Mr. Crumin said, his gaze trailing over Michael’s head. “You should dance with May Lynn. It will all
ow me some time to talk business with Mr. Jacobs. I have some matters I need to address with him that would only bore her.”
If Mr. Crumin only knew what thoughts he entertained about the young girl, he wouldn’t be so easily pushing them together. “Shall we?” Michael held out his hand.
Miss Whitley focused on his fingers, before inching her hand into his. His large hand closed around hers, as his rough calluses scratched against her silky glove. They were from two different worlds. This girl had probably never felt the sun beating down her neck as she tilled a garden. He walked her to the dance floor - the burgundy dress she wore made it look like she floated.
She turned to face him, a slight smile on her face. Did she feel how his hands shook as he placed one near her shoulder and the other high on her back? A full smile stretched across her face. She reached to his hand on her shoulder and pulled it to her elbow. Now she knew he didn’t belong.
A heat crept over his face. “Sorry.”
Miss Whitley chuckled as lightness filled her eyes. “Bless your heart. We all make mistakes every now and then.”
“I’m glad you understand.” A sigh escaped him. She hadn’t ridiculed him, but gently corrected. Just like his mother. He focused on her eyes, feeling every part of him warm. Why did this slip of a girl affect him? Was it the well-chiseled features or how she seemed to float in his arms, even though he mostly stumbled after her? But no, it wasn’t that. She looked at him with such kindness as if she didn’t mind his awkward steps or misplaced hands.
“You move much smoother than the village girls,” he said.
“Now, Mr. Thompson, what do you mean by village girls?”
“The girls who are natives of Africa.”
“Like the help back home?”
“Yes.” His tone dropped. He pushed his lips into a narrow line. The angel facade slipped away. She might act kindly to him, but she was oblivious to the suffering her way of life produced.
“My father owns many darkies on our plantation.”
“And how are they?” he asked. Yes, how many of them had her father whipped? How many babies had he ripped out of their mother’s arms? Or was she even aware of it?
“They’re fine, and quite happy. Well provided for, I would say.”
“It that so?” He laughed as he leaned his head back a little. Apparently she wasn’t aware of the brutality slavery inflicted on her “help.” But girls like her weren’t meant to see it. Only the pearls and pretty dresses the free labor allowed them to afford.
They danced until the music ended, and Miss Whitley stepped away from him, fanning herself. Michael held his hands out for a second, letting the loss of her slight form seep from him. His arms fell to his side as the girl looked away obviously trying to figure out how to slip away from him without appearing rude.
“Are you hot?” he asked.
“Yes, I could use some fresh air. Would you like to go to the courtyard? I would love to hear about your experiences in Africa.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. Did she just invite him to the courtyard? Hadn’t Mrs. Jacobs drilled him about not slipping away with the young ladies who would only flirt with him? He shouldn’t go, but she had given him the perfect opportunity to educate her about the plight of her slaves. “That would be pleasant.”
Miss Whitley folded her hands in front of her while he looked off to the side. Why didn’t she start making her way to the glass doors?
She giggled. “You’re supposed to escort me.”
His cheeks warmed again, as he fought the urge to shove his hands in his pockets. Of course. He had seen gentlemen do that all evening. He held out his arm to her. She placed her right hand on his arm, sending something sharp through him. Her touch felt so light as if her small slender hand didn’t rest against his arm.
They walked outside to the garden, stopping at a stone bench where she sat. Several rose bushes flanked the seat and petals decorated the cobblestone walkway around it. Overhead burned an oil lamp, giving the area an angelic glow that surrounded her, making her hair look like fire. He turned from her and focused on the fog covered door.
“You seem nervous,” she said.
“I was just wondering if this is improper.”
“It’s all right. We’re just in the courtyard. Everyone can see us through the glass door.”
Yes, they could. A few girls giggled off to the side, waving fans in front of their faces. He turned back towards her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know the customs. I haven’t spent much time with the upper class.”
She smiled. “It’s all right. When we attend balls, I usually end up outside. I just find the air too stuffy during large gatherings.”
He nodded and looked at the ground, kicking a pebble. “Are you and Mr. Crumin betrothed?”
“Yes, the wedding will be next fall.”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
May Lynn sighed. “It will be splendid.”
Michael knit his brows. Did she realize how pinched her plump lips looked? Deep lines formed between her brows as she looked past him like she was lost in thought. This was not a girl on the brink of happiness. She looked more like a condemned prisoner. Michael turned from her. Every part of him wished he could whisper into her ear that it would be all right. He wanted to see that smile. Those eyes twinkle. That look had fled from her face as soon as he mentioned her fiancé.
“This is my first ball.”
“Why? Did you not attend any when you were at seminary?”
He shook his head. “I went to a small conservative school that taught dancing was frivolous. I’m only here at the insistence of the Jacobses.”
Miss Whitley folded her hands in her lap. “It’s not hard to learn the nature of these parties. Everybody will talk about the same subjects. My mother and some of the women will talk about my engagement or the latest fashions. My father and Richard will talk about cotton or the rising price of a decent field hand. The same music will be played in the same order. It always is. There are a lot of parties at home.”
“I’ve heard those conversations and others.” He pushed his lips into a thin line again.
She shook her head. “We provide-.”
A large looming form filled the doorway making him stiffen. Mr. Crumin clenched the glass doors as his eyes narrowed on the girl. He had seen that cold steel look before. Michael took a step closer. If that fool....
Mr. Crumin flung open the doors. “Darling, I was wondering where you were. There are guests who would like to meet you.”
“Mr. Thompson and I were talking about his experiences in Africa.”
“Well, come, my dear.” Richard held out his hand. The girl’s shoulders sagged, and she pushed herself from the bench. She tipped her nose in the air, making the facade slip back into place.
Dear Lord, you must protect her. He spun around and focused on the rippling water. Why had the Lord introduced them? Was there some path, he was to take? The Niogni chief had looked at his wife like that once and then beat her until blue and red bruises had covered her ebony skin. Michael closed his eyes, when he heard the door close behind him. Dear Lord, let that not be her fate. Provide her a means of escape.
The words of his friend floated in his mind. “Nah, Michael just needs to find a pretty girl in need. Then the hero would come out.”
Michael spun back towards the glass doors. What if...?
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