Read A Buss from Lafayette Online
Authors: Dorothea Jensen
A Buss from Lafayette (15 page)
Dickon offered me his arm and out we went through the back door.
Once outside, Dickon and I stood in the cool evening air without speaking.
After several minutes, feeling I had to fill the silence between us, I blurted out, “So how do you like my cousin, Hetty?”
“She’s pretty enough, I suppose.” Dickon shrugged.
For a witch,
I thought. Still I felt a bit relieved that it did not appear that Dickon had fallen under her spell.
I waved my hand in front of my face, trying to cool off. “I hate to say that my ‘pretty’ cousin Hetty is right about anything at all, but her silly lace fan is looking as if it is a useful accessory after all.”
Dickon pulled a fan out of his jacket pocket. It was identical to the one with Lafayette’s portrait that his parents had given to my stepmother.
“Why, Dickon Weeks! Whatever are you doing with a
lady’s
fan?” I teased him. “Although I am sure you are far hotter than I, in that elegant cravat and jacket.”
I sound a bit too much like Hetty, but at least I am not fluttering my eyelashes,
I thought.
Or at least not on purpose.
Dickon handed the fan to me. “Well . . . actually, you can keep it if you like. I, um . . . bought it for you. I knew it was your birthday the other day, but I did not want to give it to you in front of your family—especially Joss.”
I was stunned into silence for a moment, but finally managed to respond. “Yes, my brother would certainly be amused by the notion of you giving me a birthday present. I am sure we would never hear the end of it.”
We looked at each other and both laughed nervously.
“So will you accept it?” Dickon asked.
“Yes, although perhaps ’twould be best not to let my stepmother know about this right away. She is so very proper she would probably say ‘a lady’ should not accept such a present from ‘a gentleman’ or some such thing. As if
you
were a gentleman and
I
a lady!”
“You look like a lady tonight, Clara. A very pretty lady. Despite all the ‘inelegance.’”
“You really think so?” For a moment, I could not seem to find my breath. Then, as usual, I relied on a joke to deal with an awkward moment. “In reality, Dickon, I feel like a horse with its mane done up in braids and ribbons for an Independence Day parade in the village.”
“Clara, where are you?” The sound of Hetty’s voice broke into our conversation, followed by Hetty herself, with Joss loping along behind her.
I quickly stowed my new fan in my pocket and turned to face my cousin.
“I declare, it is like an oven in that ballroom! Let us dance the next set out here—the four of us,” Hetty exclaimed.
Just then, we heard the fiddler announce in the ballroom that the next dance would be a waltz.
Hetty turned to Dickon. “It is our turn to dance, I believe, Mr. Weeks.”
Joss reached out and took her hand. “Sorry, Hetty. I am
not
going to waltz with my sister. It is bad enough to do so with a
cousin
,” he said, teasingly.
“Do you know the steps, Dickon?” I asked. “I have a general idea about how to waltz, but I have never actually tried it. I suspect that my stepmother would deem it far too shocking a dance for someone my age.”
“My older sisters made me learn it, and made me practice it with them, too. So do not worry, Clarie, just follow me,” Dickon said with a playful bow.
“I shall with great pleasure, sir.” I curtsied, trying to remember how much I had disliked this boy, for how long a time and for so many good reasons. He took my right hand in his left, placed his right hand on the small of my back, and whirled me into the waltz. All that whirling—or something else entirely—made me feel quite dizzy. I could not help but wonder if Dickon felt as dizzy as I did.
When we finished waltzing and returned inside, something very odd happened. As before, boys kept coming up to speak to Hetty, but many of them would then ask
me
to dance instead. It was only when I had no dances free that they would direct their invitations to my cousin.
Hetty did not seem too happy at this new development. She looked so upset that I almost felt sorry for her. But not quite.
Dickon also looked a bit disgruntled. I noticed he did not dance again. And each time another partner escorted me onto the dance floor, I would see him leaning against the wall like, well, like a wallflower.
Finally, the last dance was announced—an old tune called “The World Turned Upside Down.” As I went through the figures of the dance—the sets and the crossings and the allemandes—it occurred to me that the song’s title was also a pretty good description of my entire evening. Much to my own amazement, I realized that I had not sat anywhere
near
the wall during the dancing. Not even once.
I also realized that I had not thanked Dickon for his gift to me.
After we left Perkins Tavern and arrived home, we found that Aunt P. and my stepmother had waited up for us—if the latter’s reclining on the sofa, fanning herself with her Lafayette fan, could be called “up.”
As soon as we walked into the room, my aunt rushed over to us. “Did you have a simply wonderful time, girls?”
Hetty smirked. “Yes, Mother. The gentlemen were most attentive.”
“Of course they were, my dear girl. And you, Niece? Was it as much of a trial as you feared?”
“Actually, Aunt P., I had an amazingly good time after all.”
My stepmother struggled to her feet and patted me on the back. “Good for you, Clara. I know how little you wanted to go. Now, both of you girls need to get to bed. It has been a long day for you.”
Aunt P. hugged her daughter. “Do not forget to brush your hair before you go to sleep. Two hundred strokes, Hetty. Must keep it clean and shiny, after all.
Your lovely head of hair is what captures the attention of gentlemen.”
Two
hundred strokes!
I thought.
Poor Hetty!
My stepmother looked at me and sighed. “I shall not even ask you to do the same, Clara. I know how much you hate it.”
“Actually, I was planning to
comb
it, ma’am. Two hundred strokes at least!” I blurted out. Then without another word, I climbed the stairs, leaving my stepmother looking mystified.
My cousin, who was to share my bed as usual, followed closely behind me into the bedroom. We helped each other with our gowns and stays—which was a great relief—unpinned our hair, then put on our nightgowns. Finally, we cleaned our teeth with our horseradish root brushes.
Afterwards, Hetty picked up the hairbrush on my bedside table.
“It is such a pain, getting a brush through all the knots and curls in my hair,” she said, vigorously brushing her long black hair.
“I have no curls in mine, but it is a pain nevertheless,” I replied. “But now I have got a new comb, and I do not mind
combing
my hair with it in the least.” I picked up my lead comb and started to pull it through my hair.
We worked on our hair in silence for a while. Then I decided to find something out.
“Why are you so hateful about my hair, Cousin? As long as I can remember, you have teased me about it unmercifully. What did I ever do to you, that you are so mean to me all the time?”
Hetty took a few more brushstrokes without speaking before saying, “If you must know, it is not your
hair
that offends me. No, not at all. It is what’s
under
your hair that I take objection to.”
“
Under
my hair? What do you mean, Hetty? Do you think I have lice or something? I can assure you that I do
not
!”
“No! It is your
brain
and everyone going on and on about how
clever
you are. How much you
read.
How much you
know
. It is enough to turn my stomach.”
“You are
jealous
? Of
me
? But you have a perfectly good brain, Hetty.”
“My brain works well enough to know how to flatter boys, but beyond that, my wits are nothing to brag about. I have always envied the way you can talk to adults about so many things.”
“Yes, I am fine talking to adults, but I am not so very skilled at talking to boys my own age. I envy you that, in a way.”
“Really?”
“Really. I also envy you your beautiful black hair.”
We looked at each other, smiling broadly.
Hetty said, “Well, perhaps we can help each other from now on. Is it a bargain, Cousin?”
“A bargain indeed,” I agreed, giving her a quick hug. “Now, what is the stroke count on our hair? I have lost track.”
“I believe we had just reached one hundred and seventy-five, so we are nearly done. That is, if you do actually wish to comb your hair two hundred times.”
“I actually do. Believe it or not.”
And counting away, in nearly perfect charity with one another, we brushed and combed our way to bedtime.
How very odd it seemed to be happy in Hetty’s company this morning. My whole family found it quite puzzling to see us friendly towards one another. Indeed, it is still a bit puzzling for me as well, but in a good way.
Hetty and her parents accompanied us to church, then started for home soon afterwards in a veritable flurry of Sabbath traveling.
Shocking, I know, but there it is.
Sunday was blessedly cooler, which was most fortunate, as my uncle’s fashionable barouche, already packed for the trip home, did not have room to carry Joss, Hetty, and me to church. With Uncle Timothy on the driver’s seat and baggage on the front seat, there was only room inside for Aunt P., my father, and his wife.
“Unless you want to hitch up our wagon, Joss, I am afraid you three youngsters will have to go to church on foot. We cannot fit you into this carriage, and there simply is not room enough in the whisky for three passengers,” said Father.
My stepmother apologized for taking up so much room in the barouche. “I feel like a whale,” she said, and then turned to her sister-in-law. “I know I should not be seen in public, looking like this, or take any but the gentlest of rides anywhere. This is the only chance I shall have to see my friends and neighbors before I am confined, however, and ’tis but a short ride to church, after all.”
“Yes, it is only a mile to the village, and practically all downhill,” I said to Hetty. “We can easily walk there and back.”
“So that means it will be all uphill for the return walk?” observed Hetty. “Oh, well, I am willing to walk to church and back if you are. I shall be in the carriage for a good part of the afternoon, so I would like to stretch my legs.”
Joss looked back and forth between the two of us, perplexed. He had not heard such a civil exchange between us for many, many years. If ever.
“We had better get going, then. The church bell will start sounding soon,” Uncle Timothy said. “But I will drive my team very slowly, Priscilla, so you will not be shaken unnecessarily.” He chirruped to his team and the carriage started down the road at such a snail’s pace that we three young people had no trouble walking alongside.