Riding Shotgun (29 page)

“Many’s the man won’t work with his hands,” Margaret said. “They come here, charter in hand, discover what must be done and quickly turn tail. I admire you.”

“Me, too,” Cig chimed in.

“Ladies, now you flatter me. This is a new world and calls for new ways. I find I’m content to work so. Idleness breeds imaginary ills, I think. If I can put aside enough money I’m going to start breeding horses, blooded horses. I would like to start with that fine animal of yours.” He looked to Cig.

“Well—I don’t see why not.” She smiled at him. She couldn’t help but like him. He was a feeling man and a modest one. “It seems to me, Fitz, if you can breed a fine pack of foxhounds you’ll be able to breed good horses.”

“Thank you.” He warmed to his subject. “I know I’ll have to import some mares and one fine stallion but over time I hope to no longer rely upon Ireland or England. And,” he leaned forward, excited, “I want to travel to each of the colonies to see what blooded horses they have there. That will take time—years, but I am hopeful.”

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Cig said.

“I love a good horse race,” Margaret dreamed out loud.

“The Lord willing, you shall have one.” His blue eyes danced. “Ladies, I must take my leave. The day will be gone before I know it. Thank you for the repast and the lovely company. Lifts my heart.”

“Thank you for my present.” Margaret was thrilled with her book.

“I’ll walk you to the barn,” Cig said.

“No, no, stay inside and keep warm.”

“I don’t feel the cold when I’m around you.” From any other woman’s mouth the comment would have sounded flirtatious but from Cig it sounded like a statement of fact.

“Then I am honored.”

They trudged through the blue light into the barn. Cig removed the blanket and Fitz threw his saddle up on the mare’s back. Within minutes she was tacked up.

“She’s a nice mare.”

“Good bone. Not refined, mind you, but sturdy and willing. Temperament first in mares and women.” He laughed.

“True enough. I’m glad you rode out here. I love the book. I’ll read it before I next see you.” She didn’t comment on the fact that it was in French. She’d surmised that educated people were expected to read Latin and French. Fortunately, she could read both, at least enough to get by.

“Want a leg up?” she said.

“Are you thinking I’m that old and stiff?”

“No. Sometimes when I mount from the ground my left kneecap hurts.”

“Well, your horse is a mite taller than my own, you see, so I can just swing up”—which he did—“and look the graceful fellow. I don’t think I could be quite so light off the ground if I had far to go.”

“That’s good of you to say.” She placed her hand on his boot calf much as she would do with Hunter, Laura, or one of her students. It was such a natural gesture she wasn’t even aware of it. “I like your ideas, Fitz, and I like you.”

“Then I’m a happy man.”

She paused. “You know, I really am a fish out of water… sometimes I feel lost. Tom wants me to marry Lionel and Lionel beseiges me.” The words began spilling out. “It would be good for both houses, but I can’t find my way to him, and I’m not just saying that because of what you said to me once. I don’t belong here, but I’m trying, and Margaret and Tom are so good to me. I must be a trial to them because I can’t remember people and what I do remember…” She stopped a moment, afraid she was going to cry.

He reached down, putting his hand on her shoulder. “A burden’s never so heavy when two carry it. You’re not alone.”

She removed his hand from her shoulder and kissed his palm. “Thank you.”

He placed his hand on her burning cheek. “You only have to ask. If you need me I will fly to you.” He lifted his hand, turned the mare toward Jamestown and rode into the heavy snow.

When Cig returned to the house, Margaret was devouring her book. She glanced up. “You like him best, don’t you?”

Cig nodded. “Yes.”

“There will be trouble.”

“I know. I was a fool. Margaret,” her voice pleaded for answers as she blurted out, “I slept with Lionel when we visited Wessex.”

Margaret placed a hand on both pages of the open book. “Ah, then there
will
be trouble.”

“I can’t!” Cig complained.

“You’ll learn.”

“Margaret, I’m not doing this.”

“Yes, you
are”
Margaret firmly ordered her. “It’s rude to spurn the request of a gentleman and it’s uncivilized not to dance. Now stand up.”

“I hate this,” Cig mumbled, wishing Tom would return from Wessex. At least then she might escape this lesson.

“Hate it silently.” Margaret reached over and took Cig’s hand and bowed, playing the gentleman’s part. “Curtsy.”

Cig wobbled down.

“I’ve seen eighty-year-old women curtsy with more grace than that. Now do as I do. See, put your right foot behind your left, just turn the toe in ever so slightly and there. Arms out at a pleasing angle, hands just so.”

Cig observed the fluid movement of her graceful sister-in-law. Grumbling, she tried to imitate it.

Margaret lifted Pryor’s hands with her own. “Up a bit, you don’t want to give the impression of drooping, like a wilting flower. Better. Now again. Much better.”

“Liar.”

“How is it you never learned to curtsy?”

“I went to cotillions but it wasn’t the same. No curtsy and the dances are different.”

“Am I to gather from this that the social graces have eroded?”

“Eroded? Hell, Margaret, they were washed out into the Atlantic with the Industrial Revolution.” Cig practiced a few more dips. “Never mind about the Industrial Revolution, but your children will live to see the beginning of it. And the queer thing is that Virginians believe they are the most civilized people in America if not on earth. Compared to you, though, we’re a crude lot.”

“Ah, well, there must be compensating gifts. God never closes one door but what He opens another.”

“I haven’t found it yet.” Cig put her hands on her hips. “Will my curtsy pass muster?”

“No. Practice makes perfect.”

“What else do I have to know for this Christmas ball?”

“Just follow me. If you can dance, your wits will save you in conversation, so don’t worry about that…. Now, I’ve bowed to you and you’ve curtsied to me. Next I lead you onto the floor.” Margaret lifted Cig’s hand up high. They traipsed a few steps. “Pryor…” She motioned for her to back up.

“What am I doing over here?”

“Dancing.”

“But you’re over there.”

“Of course. You’re with the ladies and I’m with the gentlemen.”

“You mean no gentleman is going to hold me in his arms?” Disappointment hung on every syllable.

“Certainly not!”

Cig racked her brain to remember when the sexes began dancing close. Was it the waltz? “Are we doing a minuet?”

“Yes. There are quite a few steps to learn. Part of one’s standing in society depends on this. You must dance well.”

“All right.”

“Now I will turn left and you will turn right. Imagine that
you’ve a lady in front of you and one behind, so you must keep in step or there will be a frightful collision, especially if it’s Amelie Boothrod.”

“She colors her hair. That reddish tint is a color not seen in nature.”

Margaret laughed. “She swears she doesn’t, not that I’ve brought it up to her, but Kate deVries has. Kate will say anything as I’m sure you gathered.”

“Who knows how to color hair?”

“Wealthy ladies bring over indentured servants skilled in enhancing ladies’ gifts or lack thereof. After a few years their term of service is up, they’ve a pocketful of money, and they set up shop… it’s discreet, usually a millinery shop or a dressmaker’s establishment. The hair coloring is done in the back. They’ll also visit you in your home if your servants can be bribed into silence. There’s no such thing as a hungry hairdresser.”

Cig remarked, “Gossip, the fuel of life!”

“In Virginia, yes!”

“Have you ever noticed, when we talk it’s gossip, when men do it’s the “news?”

Margaret laughed. “Keep in step.” She clapped her hands in rhythm. “Now turn right, come down the line, hold your hand up. Stop. Now nod to your partner.”

“Would that be you? If you were a man, I mean?”

“Depends on the dance.”

“What a wonderful way to be with men. One gets to exchange a few steps with everyone.”

“And in front of everyone.”

“Perfect.” Cig smiled. “How am I doing?”

“Glide your feet along. Don’t lift them.”

“Ah.” Cig half-slid, half-glided.

“Better. It’s a bad sign for a lady to have a heavy foot and as you will slightly lift your skirts from time to time you don’t want a big one either.”

“Margaret, I’m not dainty, and neither are my feet. I tower over everyone but Lionel.”

“Your feet are proportionate. Stop. Yes. Now come towards
me, pass and then turn to face me as I do the same to you.”

“This is the Virginia Reel.”

“What?”

“This is a fancy version of the Virginia Reel. It’s a dance we still do.”

“Then you’re not entirely uncivilized.”

“Rudiments of elegance linger.” Cig smiled.

“Lift your chin up, Pryor. You don’t want to drop your head. Apart from being clumsy it makes one look old. Double chins will come soon enough.”

“Perish the thought.” Cig felt a sharp twinge of nervousness. This kind of dancing was a true performance and stage fright was creeping in even here in front of the massive fireplace. Grace would have been in her element. “Margaret, do I have to dance with any man who asks me?”

“Yes. I told you. It would be rude to refuse a gentleman.”

The corner of Cig’s mouth twitched upward. “What if he’s not a gentleman?”

“You wouldn’t be a lady to say so.”

Cig bounced around a bit. “I suppose Lionel will pounce on me.”

“Keep your head up. Up, up, up! Considering he shared your bed I guess he will. Up!”

“It is!”

“Now it is.”

“You know, I look at Lionel and I see Blackie. I don’t ever want to fall on my face again like that—in this life or the next.”

“You’ll fall on your face if you don’t learn these steps.”

“I’m not good at this.”

“The music helps.”

“Grace is the dancer.”

“Well, Grace isn’t dancing at the Christmas ball,
you
are. Come back to the middle,” Margaret ordered her. “Begin again. With the curtsy. Good.”

Cig watched as Margaret pointed her toe to coach her.

Margaret continued, “Don’t point your toe like that, Pryor. That’s what the gentleman will do. You point yours
into the line. This way we are mirror images of one another.”

“I get it.” The symmetry of the dances was part of their appeal.

“Practice now.”

They ran through the steps one more time. Cig held her hands in the time-out sign. Margaret kept dancing. “Time out… stop.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“I did.” She made the T sign again. “That means stop in my time. We have a game called football, except it’s not soccer—”

Merrily, Margaret imitated the sign. Cig stopped. “Pryor, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Let me start again. There’s a game in my time, I think it started in the late nineteenth century, it’s violent but very addictive—that is, you can’t stop once you’ve started. Teamwork is the key…” she noticed Margaret’s bemused stare. “Anyway, when you need a break you do this.”

“Why not stop completely?”

“No. It’s a time-out.” She raised her voice. “Time out. You go to the sidelines to talk to your coach. He helps you and you run back in again.”

“That’s cheating.”

“No, Margaret, it’s in the rules. Trust me. I am
serious
about football.”

“I can see that.”

“The ball is elliptical.” Cig drew a football
in
the air with her finger.

“Shouldn’t it be round?”

“No. This makes it harder because the ball flops around except when you throw a pass. Then it spirals.”

“Pryor, this is a most peculiar game.”

“Well,” Cig’s lower lip jutted out like Tom’s when perturbed, “what sports do you like?”

“Horse racing, as you know.” She thought a moment. “I think I should like court tennis if ever I visited London to see such a game, and fencing, I like that.”

“What about track and field? You know, foot races, throwing the javelin, that stuff.”

“I like foot races.” Margaret put her hands on her hips. “Hunting, of course.” She sat down. Cig sat next to her then rose to put another log on the fire. “Why did you not tell me straightaway about you and Lionel?”

“I couldn’t say anything on the way back from Wessex. Tom would jump to conclusions.”

“You had other opportunities.”

“I forgot—really, I did. Or rather whenever I thought of it Tom would be around or Marie. Fortunately, she’s rotund so you hear her coming.” She smiled, lips together. “Is it a bad thing in this time to go to bed with a man if you’re not married to him?”

“Not so bad. It’s better than suffering from the green sickness.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t use that expression?” As Cig shook her head Margaret explained. “It’s used to indicate that a lady needs time with a gentleman.”