After dinner that night, Constance lingered over jasmine tea with the Beaumonts. The twins had gone to prepare for a game of cards in the parlor, and Lorimer excused himself early to his room over the barn, where he preferred to stay rather than in the house.
She swished the pale brown liquid with her spoon. While she had enjoyed the brief Bible meeting with the family led by Lorimer, it hadn’t come close to stirring her like the service in the woods. But Constance had no doubt these devotional times contributed to the sincere faith she had discovered in this home.
“I suppose I should join the girls.” Constance sat her cup on the satin tablecloth.
“Wait a moment, Miss Cavendish.” Mrs. Beaumont turned to her husband. “We have something to discuss with you, don’t we, dear?”
“Go ahead, Mrs. Beaumont. We are all aware that you know your own mind.” Mr. Beaumont chuckled good-naturedly.
“Yes, then. I should like to retain your services until August. You did a fine job with our young ladies, and I look forward to watching their continued progress.”
In all that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours, Constance had forgotten her stay here remained uncertain. Her employment had not even crossed her mind. She found a smile for the Beaumonts as she knew they expected. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. I’m so relieved to hear it. We shall begin their ballet training at once. Wait until thou see the difference it makes.”
“I have no doubt.” Mr. Beaumont winked at her in a fatherly sort of manner, which generated a knot of melancholy in her chest.
“Good, then. That’s settled.” Mrs. Beaumont made as if to rise.
But they had not at all concluded this conversation. They never discussed her salary in these two weeks. “I’m sorry, madam. May I keep thee for another moment? I so appreciate the way thou has treated me as family, but since we are all together, might we discuss the business arrangements for my stay? I hate to mention it, but I need appropriate attire if we are to continue holding dances. I brought little with me.”
“Of course, dear. We’ll have Mr. Percy see to it. I believe I offered Monsieur Molyneux a rather ridiculous sum. I would say you deserve no less. Do you agree, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Oh, and that reminds me.” Mrs. Beaumont gave Constance her full attention. “I hope you shall be starting the waltz soon. I’ve been all aflutter with anticipation.” Indeed her hand fluttered as she spoke.
“Aye, of course. Although, I’ve been thinking, how shall the guests learn the steps so they can participate? It isn’t something one might pick up at a glance.”
“Dear me, I hadn’t considered that. Maybe we’ll have only a demonstration—although, that’s not what I pictured. Do you have any suggestions, Miss Cavendish?”
Constance would not reveal her plan yet, for she wasn’t sure if Mrs. Beaumont would be pleased to let her part from them, even for an afternoon or two a week. “I shall think on it. I’m certain that, together, we can manage something.”
And before long Constance would be the premier dance instructor of Albemarle County.
* * *
Sitting in the sunny window seat of her room upon a chintz cushion, Constance turned the worn leather Bible over in her hands again and again, although she supposed such external examination did not qualify as “Bible study” per se. She flipped it open and landed on Lamentations. “My flesh and my skin hath he made old; he hath broken my bones.” Gracious! She did not need that sort of verse this morning. Too many already considered her an old maid despite her lineless face. She recalled the words of Jesus were found in the New Testament. Turning through the pages, she stumbled upon the book of Matthew. No, a long genealogical list did not help.
She skipped forward several chapters, and at last she found something of value. “Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy…”
She scanned down the passage until another line caught her attention. If she engaged her imagination, she could almost fancy that it shimmered as Lorimer had said. “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.”
That seemed like much to digest already. Perhaps too much. How did Lorimer conduct his study? She read back over the words, unsure how she should perceive the particulars. But she did glean an overriding theme.
Christ stood on the side of the poor and the oppressed.
That seemed to be the essence. Somehow, she did not recall hearing such a message before, although these appeared to be the words of Jesus himself. Not until she was poor and reviled had she turned her thoughts to God, and only then to dodge further wrath at his hand.
Perhaps she’d missed the point entirely. Perhaps the point was that one could better perceive and accept God when one had need of him.
Considering again the portion about mercy, she pondered her relationship with Sissy. All these years, she had heaped guilt upon herself for disobeying her father. But what of mercy? Surely she had been merciful in doing so.
Constance recalled the day she had found Sissy in her room turning over a book of Blake poems in her hand. The thirteen-year-old girl had studied the cryptic symbols, not at all unlike how Constance had studied the front of the Bible just moments ago.
“Those sure are some mighty fine letters on there, Miss Ginger.” Sissy had brushed her fingers over the textured cover. “I recognize me that there ‘c’ like Cavendish.” She pointed to the word complete. “I suppose you know all of them letters and what they say.”
“Of course. Would you like me to read you one?” Constance took the book and opened it.
“Oh, you know I would.”
The girls snuggled together on Constance’s bed as she read. “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?”
She could have quoted those favorite lines from memory, but for Sissy’s sake she trailed each word with her pointer finger as she read. Although Papa had taught her that slaves did not possess the intelligence to handle such complex thought processes, she hoped Sissy might enjoy better understanding the basic mechanics of reading.
“So this one here says fire.” The girl pointed to the word in both places. “I done saw it twice and recollected. And look a’ this one. It’s got a ‘c’ like Cavendish. And this starts the word could, so that one must have a ‘ck’ sound. And I reckon that there letter on fire must sound like ‘ff’ causin’ it was at the beginning of fearful too, right?”
Constance stared at Sissy in wonder. She was not merely spouting rote memorization but rather seemed to comprehend the entire process of reading. Perhaps Papa was wrong, and slaves could be taught to read. Such thinking might change everything.
As Constance looked into the sharp brown eyes of her best friend, she knew she must try. They were no longer children playing at dolls in the forest, and other than boys and hairstyles they had little to discuss these days. But in that moment, she saw that Sissy’s mind was like a dry sponge, screaming to absorb knowledge. Constance must at least try to teach her.
Had that not been mercy she’d shown Sissy on that day so long ago? And in the following years as she instructed Sissy in literature, mathematics, and even history in their secret attic hideaway—the same attic where she would permit Sissy, always the same size as Constance, to try on her gowns and shoes?
Mercy or folly? Her father would say folly, for certain. They must keep the servants complacent, he would insist. Constance hadn’t believed him until it was too late. Without an education, without a taste of the finer things in life, Sissy would not have betrayed her. The slaves would not have rebelled.
Papa would not be dead.
It was all her fault. She should never have disobeyed. Blessed are those who thirst for righteousness, the Scripture had said. Righteous children obeyed their parents. Even she knew the Ten Commandments. She longed for righteousness now, but had missed her opportunity.
Yet, how did righteousness fit with mercy? They seemed to run at odds with one another. In retrospect, her actions might not have been merciful at all, for who knew what horrors Sissy endured away from the loving care of the Cavendishes.
This Bible study habit was not for the faint of heart. It evoked such intense thoughts and more than a little confusion. But at least she had made an attempt. When Lorimer returned she would ply him with questions. Knowing him as she did already, Constance suspected he might say mercy prevails in such cases.
She whispered a quick prayer for guidance as she proceeded with her day, then laid the Bible on her bed stand. Lorimer would be so proud of her. Proud? She seemed to recall God did not encourage pride. Neither did the emotion fit those he might bless from the passage. She did so long for God’s blessing upon her life. Pleased. Yes, Lorimer would be pleased.
Changing into her dance slippers, she headed down to the ballroom for the morning’s instruction. Today, they would begin ballet.
* * *
“All right, ladies, now back to first position.”
Several days after her first attempt at Bible study, Constance observed the twins’ attempts with their ballet exercises. Both girls held the basic stance: toes out, heels together, hands in a circular shape to the front. They lacked, however, finesse. “Molly, marionette strings from your head, please. Dolly, soft elbows as if you hug a wash barrel.”
Molly giggled. “Miss Cavendish, I’m sure she’s never hugged a wash barrel.”
“Then I suggest you use your imaginations before I run and fetch one.”
The girls both laughed at her teasing threat.
“I’m growing stiff from standing still so long.” Dolly blew a curl from her eye. “Might we do some actual dancing today?”
They’d spent the past few days conquering the basic five positions of ballet and walking across the checkered marble floor with the grace of princesses.
Constance put her hands to her hips. “Through ballet we create a dancer from the inside out. When you can maintain the proper shape, then we shall move. Your walks improved dramatically today. Let’s try some simple pliés and relevés in this position. A bend of the knees. Observe how they open to the sides and create a diamond.” She pulled her skirts tight and did her best to demonstrate. They had chosen their loosest, shortest morning dresses for the training, but still it could be a challenge to detect the proper form in the knees with such clothing.
The girls attempted the maneuver, and as she expected, poked their rears out behind them.
“No, no, no.” She sounded like Molyneux of a sudden. “Like so. Imagine you are traveling up and down in a tube and must keep your body in a straight position. Head over hips over feet.”
The girls tried again with more success.
“Now pulling your stomach inward and holding it strong as we discussed, rise gently on your toes…and back down.”
They repeated the variation of relevés and pliés several times to her counts. How nice it would be if Mrs. Beaumont could accompany them on an instrument, but the spoken rhythm worked well enough. “Good, now hold in relevé and balance. Hands overhead in high fifth position, please.”
To her shock and delight, mayhem did not ensue.
“Derrière in, Dolly,” called Mrs. Beaumont, although Dolly’s position showed marked improvement.
“Lovely!” Constance clapped when they completed the exercise. “Tomorrow we shall attempt it holding a chair for a ballet barre and add more complexity to the sequence.”
“Now might we move from this spot, Miss Cavendish?” Dolly begged, clasping her hands together and shaking them before her plump face.
Perhaps there was something to be said for actual physical exertion. Although the girls were not unacceptably round, they would move far lighter on their feet with less excess weight. They had trimmed down a bit in the last two weeks, and a few more pounds would not hurt.
“Fine,” Constance said, moving in front of the girls. “But tomorrow you shall plié, relevé, and tendu until your derrières ache.” The girls giggled again.
“Let’s work on the pas de bourrée. It is similar to a step we used in the country dance and the basis upon which we shall later build the waltz.”
“Oh, brilliant!” Mrs. Beaumont called from the corner, laying aside her novel. She clapped her hands together. “Now we arrive at the good stuff.”
Constance turned to her and smiled. “I assure thee, Mrs. Beaumont, it is all the good stuff—although this shall no doubt be more enjoyable to watch.”
She demonstrated the basic down, up, up movement in a side-to-side pattern. When she turned to observe, the girls did not fumble, but continued the step. “Very nice, although you must strive to maintain the posture we’ve worked on all day and the point of the toes.”
Both girls made the adjustments while they danced. “Good.” Far from perfect, but as good as could be expected. Constance turned to the front again. “Now let’s travel it by continuing the side-to-side step but moving forward like so.” The twins followed her about the room several rotations with the graceful, gliding steps in three-quarter time.
“Molly, toes out, please,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “and, Dolly, chin up and tilting with the motion as Miss Cavendish’s.” Constance bit back a smile. She supposed the woman paid her enough to interfere as much as she liked.
When they reached Mrs. Beaumont on the third round, she stood and applauded. “Bravo, bravo!”
Constance joined in her praise. “Excellent work, ladies. Go ahead and have some refreshment while I speak with thy mother for a moment.” The girls scurried off.
“Absolutely astonishing, Miss Cavendish. I would not believe the change that has come over those girls in a short time had I not seen it for myself. I’ve unearthed quite a treasure in you.”
Constance patted her brow with a handkerchief. “My thanks, Mrs. Beaumont.”
“And that waltz. What a lovely step. I can’t wait to see it performed.”
“It’s similar to a cotillion but with the movement thou observed and the close holds between the partners.”
“Yes, the ones called scandalous.” Mrs. Beaumont wiggled her brows. “Do you think them so, Miss Cavendish?”
“I’ve never seen them performed so, although I imagine given a randy set of partners they might become a bit provocative.” A wave of embarrassment overtook her. She had likely danced it so with Robbie on that night long ago. Constance looked down at her toes.
“Have you given much thought yet to the issue of how to teach it?”
Ah, now was not the moment to be demure. Constance looked Mrs. Beaumont in the eye. “I think we must endeavor to prepare at least a number of the attendees, the young sons and daughters of thy neighbors, perhaps. Those of an age with the twins.”
“That would be perfect. But still, how shall we accomplish it. We’ve few enough dance instructors in the area. Often older family members simply teach the children so far away from civilization. And I doubt anyone but you and Robbie, perhaps Terrence Sugarbaker, know the steps. They were on the continent together, you know.”
Interesting. “Nay, I did not.” She maneuvered the conversation back to the matter at hand. “But I think what we must do is hold a cotillion class, in a central location such as Charlottesville. At an assembly hall, if there is one.”
“I’m afraid there is not just yet. Thus the church services in the courthouse.”
Constance tapped her chin. “Then at a large home near town, perhaps.”
“That I could provide. The Mayfairs’ home would do quite nicely. They’ve a spacious foyer suitable for balls.” Mrs. Beaumont sighed in relief. “But wait, you haven’t mentioned who shall teach the classes.”
“Oh dear. I suppose it must be me. I did teach group lessons in Richmond—although I’d hate to give up time with the twins. We could hold the classes in the late afternoons, perhaps Tuesdays and Thursdays. And they could attend for the additional practice. They’d have partners aplenty.”
Mrs. Beaumont took Constance’s hands in her own and shook them with fervor. “Thank you. Thank you, Miss Cavendish. What a relief. I am so glad you are willing to take on this challenge. I shall see that your pay reflects these additional duties. Never fear.” The woman smiled with satisfaction, as if the idea had been all her own.
“Thou are very welcome, Mrs. Beaumont. It will be a pleasure to assist thy family in this way.” Not to mention Constance’s own family. She would write them this very day with the good news. Today was Thursday, and only on Monday had she sent word of her settled employment. They would be so pleased. She would be introduced to Charlottesville society. Establish herself as instructor to the whole region. This would finally be the fresh start they’d dreamed of for years.
If only Mother could be convinced to move to Charlottesville.
She would engage wisdom in her wording and send the letter to Patience at the mercantile. Given time, Mother would acquiesce. She simply must.
“That was quite a productive morning. What do you say we join the girls for refreshments?” Mrs. Beaumont turned to leave the ballroom.
The temptation toward pride rose up in Constance. She had sewn everything together rather nicely.
“And next week when Robbie returns, you shall demonstrate the waltz for us.”
With those words Constance’s delusions of success shattered.