Chapter Sixteen #2
Immediately afterward, the band struck up an almost incongruously lively tune and the Prince led Mrs. Ward onto the floor
as they all were invited to join in the dancing.
Although she had danced many times before, of course, at pubs and parties and dancehalls in Dublin when she was undergoing
her nurse’s training and in Bundoran and the neighboring villages with Donal and others, Rynn was uncomfortable with the idea
of taking to the floor under so many curious eyes. Despite Thomas’s urging, she refused several invitations to dance, preferring
to remain with him on the sidelines while chatting with those similarly disinclined.
Until the Prince of Wales, having joined their small group of former soldiers engaged in verbally refighting old battles to
weigh in with his own tales of being overseas among the troops while bemoaning that he had never actually been allowed by
his government to fight, solicited her hand for the promised dance.
“Dunne, if I may borrow your wife? Lady Thomas, if you will do me the honor?”
A quick downward glance at Thomas, who gave her a wicked smile, confirmed what she already knew: there was no refusing such an invitation.
So she in turn smiled at the Prince, dropped a small curtsy and found herself swept up in the whirling, twirling carousel that was dozens of couples dancing to the tune of “Smiles.”
“I understand this is your first visit to London,” the Prince said, and she agreed. Despite his diminutive size, which he
didn’t seem sensitive about, the arm about her waist was firm, and his grip on her hand was strong. He was an excellent dancer,
while she was mediocre at best, and sadly out of practice. Holding up her end of the conversation as they dipped and turned
required every bit of her concentration.
“I am to visit Canada later this year, you know. I’m very much looking forward to it. The people seem almost embarrassingly
enthusiastic. I have no doubt I should be met with a far different reception if I should attempt a visit to your country.
The Irish seem to have little use for the Crown at the moment. Quite a belligerent people, actually. Although I suspect it’s
only a small group causing all the problems. Do you agree?”
She did not, but she didn’t want to contradict the heir to the British throne, and particularly not at the moment. Britain’s
growing anger toward the Irish, which was beginning to strike her as rather like that of an autocratic parent toward a child
who simply cannot be made to mind, was dwarfed by the volcano of resentment that had built up in her countrymen over eight
hundred years of mistreatment. Not causing any embarrassment to Thomas and his family had become an objective with her, and
with that end in mind she sought for the most noncommittal reply she could give.
“I really couldn’t say, sir.”
“Well, I am sure they will soon come around. It’s not as though they have any real choice. Churchill is champing at the bit
to get them sorted out, and I have every confidence that he will succeed.”
“David! David!”
Distracted, the Prince glanced in the direction of the female voice that was loud enough to cut through the music and the
noise, nodded once as if in answer and then looked back at Rynn.
“That’s all for me, I’m afraid,” he said. “It seems I’m being summoned to another engagement.”
Rynn remembered then that he was called David by his family and friends and blessed the interruption. He was being beckoned
to an anteroom, she saw as she glanced in the caller’s direction to find Freda Dudley Ward waving at them—or rather at him.
Mrs. Ward had donned a sumptuous blond fur coat and hat and stood together with a small party also dressed for the outdoors.
“I’ve enjoyed our dance.” The Prince ended it with a flourish as they neared the doorway where Mrs. Ward waited. “I would
be interested in getting your perspective on the unfortunate situation in Ireland in a setting where we may more easily talk.
But for now, let me find you another dance partner.”
Another dance with a stranger was the last thing Rynn wanted to endure.
“That is kind of you, sir, but I think I should return to my husband now. Please go ahead and don’t worry about me. I can
easily find my way.”
“David!” Mrs. Ward’s wave was more urgent.
“If you’re certain.” The Prince was clearly eager to be off.
She assured him she was.
“Then I’ll say good night,” he said, and with a smile for Rynn and a kiss of his fingertips to Mrs. Ward as she called again
he headed toward her.
Left alone, Rynn took the few steps needed to lose herself among the shifting groups mulling about on the side of the dance floor, then paused to get her bearings.
The Prince had gone, along with Mrs. Ward and the rest of her party.
The dance floor remained crowded, and she spotted Lord and Lady Wycomb, with separate partners, among the dancers.
She couldn’t see Thomas but guessed that he still would be on the other side of the ballroom near where she had left him.
She was just contemplating the best way to rejoin him without cutting through the middle of the dance floor when she spotted a tall, powerfully built and somehow elusively familiar figure moving toward her through the crowd.
Her eyes widened as he got closer and she recognized Owen Maguire. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed smoothly back, elegantly
dressed in a black tailcoat with a white waistcoat and tie, he was as far removed from the raffish captain of the Reaper as it was possible to be. What he was doing there she had no idea, but for just a moment, as her eyes rested on him, she
found to her surprise that she was enormously glad to see him. It was, she thought, because he brought Ireland with him. Looking
at him was like looking at a small piece of home.
A wave of longing to be back among the soft mists and green hills of her birthplace arose out of nowhere to hit her like a
brick.
Despite how promising her new life seemed, England, she feared, was still going to take some getting used to.
She only realized that she was standing stock still watching Maguire’s approach when someone knocked into her from behind.
Staggering a little, turning to look, she found herself face-to-face with a leering, middle-aged army officer with a very
red face. He’d obviously had too much to drink.
“Dance, lovey?” He reached for her hand, which she instinctively put behind her back, out of his reach.
“No.” Realizing that was probably too rude a refusal given the august nature of the company, she added a belated “Thank you.”
“The lady’s with me.” Maguire spoke from behind her. Despite the circumstances, the soft lilt in his voice was music to her
ears.
The officer looked past her, then grimaced as if not liking what he saw.
“Sorry. My mistake,” he said, and moved on.