Chapter 15 A Ship in Frost #2
“Miss Darcy offered to accompany me. She was a slip of a girl, not yet fifteen. I thought it a joke at first, or the naivete of a child, but the excitement of the guests was so obvious that I realized she must be a prodigy. I brashly declared we would perform. That was a stunt, but I wanted to prove myself. The sonata is fiendishly difficult for both the violin and pianoforte, so performing it without joint rehearsal was absurd. The audience knew that.”
“I hope the story ends happily, and the performance was a great triumph, and that rude man was shamed!”
“It was all that, and more. My understanding of the piece was enlightened with no more communication than the intimacy of performance. Afterward, I met Georgiana’s brother, who towered over me and scowled, which Georgiana explained was Darcy exhibiting delight.
Then she apologized for her performance, as she had missed notes at a page turn because she was unfamiliar with the composition.
She had played the score sight unseen—” Mr. Knightley interrupted his story with an amazed laugh, shaking his head.
“I must hear her play,” I said. “And you, too. Perhaps you will play together?”
“I would be honored.”
I realized his answer was not a polite nicety. He could arrive at breakfast with his instrument. “We are both intertwined with Darcys.”
“It seems so,” he said. “I have wondered at your connection. I know you carry a burden.” I did not answer, and he added, “You and I meet in strange ways. I carry you up flights of stairs. We flee angry crowds. That is unusual for a lady of Surrey visiting London.”
“I am as surprised as you.”
“The Darcys are unusual, themselves.”
“They are,” I said, wondering how to interpret that. “Do they share their secrets with you?”
He answered seriously, “I cannot be specific outside their presence.”
“Of course.”
“What of you, Miss Woodhouse, who has been surprised in London? Do you know Darcy secrets?”
I crossed my arms, thinking. He stood leaning his elbow on the railing, in profile to the lamps. His hair was tight ringlets tied back in an old-fashioned style, and the coils gleamed.
“They have shared secrets,” I answered.
“And do you tell the Darcys your secrets?”
“Not all of them,” I whispered, and my heart shivered. “Will you excuse me?”
I crossed the lamplit deck to where Harriet was laughing with the others. She looked beautiful and happy, and my determination to protect her warmed me.
“Miss Woodhouse,” she cried out. “Are you not cold? We have wine mulled with cinnamon.” She hiccupped.
“I see that,” I said. The heated wine was in coffee cups much larger than any wine cup Harriet had encountered.
“Perhaps you have had enough?” She blinked at me unevenly, so I took her cup and said, “Yes, you have had enough.” She gave a whimsical shrug, and we settled beside each other on the fabric bales.
The music began. After talk of genius, it was simple tunes—folk songs of the Irish, Celts, or farther places, all tending to melancholy and reminiscence.
Each was introduced by a single musician who explained where he or she had heard it, the mode or key, and musical details beyond my knowledge.
That person would begin, singing or playing a violin or a flute, then after a few bars, others would join.
The ensemble was perfect. They were clearly skilled beyond our Highbury performers.
Mr. Knightley did not unpack his violin, which was a disappointment, but he sang, harmonizing in his tenor.
After a half-dozen songs, true night had fallen, and the light was all from our lanterns. I checked my watch.
“It is after five,” I said to Harriet. “We should depart. We are moving from Chathford this evening.” She pouted but nodded, so we rose, shook out our skirts, and asked how, in fact, we could depart.
Captain Freeman immediately protested. “That’s what comes of dreary music! The ladies leave. Why not play a happy tune to finish?”
“A reel!” Harriet cried with a clap of her hands. “You did say you could play a reel, Mr. Knightley.”
“I did,” he agreed, smiling. He took out his violin and began tuning the strings, clucking in dismay at the effect of the cold.
I watched Harriet’s face fall as she realized this meant he would not dance, but she cheered up and accepted Captain Freeman’s offer.
The married couple joined them in a square, and I sat down to show I was content to watch.
Mr. Knightley and the other violinist started a wildly spirited tune.
It was immediately apparent that Captain Freeman’s concept of a reel was different from a reel in Surrey—he seemed to be dancing a jig despite the conflicting time signature—but it all blended into laughter, the clop of heels on the hollow deck, and flamboyantly waved hands. I applauded loudly at the end.
Amid the congratulations and jokes, Mr. Knightley approached and offered his hand. I pulled with unladylike enthusiasm to rise from my bale of wool.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“Will you not have a dance before you go?” he said.
“I have not danced for some time. I have forgotten my steps.” I had not dared a ballroom since Papa became ill.
Mr. Knightley had a considering smile. “There is a dance with simple steps.”
I eyed him skeptically. “That does not sound like a proper dance.”
“Society would disagree. It is the highest fashion of the season.” He raised his voice to his friends. “Gentlemen! What dance is the highest fashion in London?”
“The German waltz,” they replied as one, with eye rolls and groans as if they were very tired of it.
“The German waltz,” Mr. Knightley repeated. “May I have the honor?”
He presented his hand. We were in a pool of lamplight, every face watching. His posture was formal, and it suddenly seemed a ball, where courtesy required that an offer to dance was accepted.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. The words sent a reckless joy through my body. “But I cannot dance in this coat.”
My pelisse fastened simply in front, but my fingers stalled as they touched the top clasp. The pause stretched to become uncomfortable, as frozen as the river.
Mr. Knightley said, “If you prefer to depart, we shall set out. It is becoming cold—”
“No,” I said. “Would you assist me?” I turned my back to him, drew a breath and closed my eyes. My fingers fumbled the top clasp apart, then the lower one, and the coat fell loose. I jammed my arms stiffly by my sides, knowing I must look bizarre, but I kept my eyes squeezed tight…
A touch drew the cloth from my neck. The shoulders eased free, then the furred collar slipped down the back of my dress.
It was an extraordinarily gentle sensation, like a caress over my shoulder blades, or how I would imagine a caress.
Then there was an awkward tug at my wrists.
I forced my arms a little looser, and the cuffs fell away.
“Put it away!” I gasped, unable to invent a reason.
“That is done,” he answered after a few seconds, sounding tense himself.
I opened my eyes, braced for fetid disease, but there was only Harriet, who had come close with a worried expression. She looked perfectly healthy. She relaxed when I opened my eyes, then became a little wistful, perhaps thinking she should have offered Mr. Knightley her shawl.
But she smiled and mouthed, Go dance.
I swirled, swishing cloth around my ankles, and felt utterly triumphant. “What is the German waltz?”
Mr. Knightley did not answer. Finally, he said, “I did not expect… your gown is very striking.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my dress, which was ivory and quite simple.
I rarely wore it now—there were no fringes or ribbons to ward off disaster—but today it had seemed comfortable.
It gleamed in the lamplight, but any satin would do that.
“I imagine that is the night, with the dark wood, and all our dark winter clothes.” When he continued to just stand there, I added, “It is not a very warm gown, you know.”
In answer, he offered his left hand, palm up. “May I have your right hand, Miss Woodhouse?” I took his hand. Our skin touched through the open lace. “Your left will rest on my shoulder.”
“Your shoulder?” I confirmed. He nodded.
I placed each fingertip gingerly, having to step forward. We were now as close as I had ever stood in a dance.
“A little nearer,” he said. I took a miniscule step, and he raised his other hand. “I guide you from here…” He placed his hand on my waist. In the icy air, the heat of his fingers passed through my thin satin and silk in a heartbeat.
I rose on my tiptoes to peer over his shoulder at his friends. “Is this really a dance?”
“It is, Miss Woodhouse,” one of them replied. “The Prince Regent has danced it.”
I frowned up at Mr. Knightley. “That does not mean much.” The prince was a notorious rake.
“It is danced by the court as well,” Mr. Knightley replied. “Step back with your right foot.” He stepped with me, and the musicians played a single, opening note. We took halting steps, and the musicians followed, which was a peculiar experience. We began turning, and the music steadied.
As the lamps circled us, he said, “In German, it is walzen, to roll.”
“Is this all there is?” Most dances were far more complex. It took a week to master the crossings and steps for a cotillion.
In answer, he gave my waist a hard push and whirled away, raising our joined hands over our heads. The lights swirled, my skirt flared, then I was caught against his chest.
“Oh,” I said.
The married couple joined, dancing expertly.
The music sped up. We twirled faster, and he turned me inward and outward, then showed me how to release hands.
Finally, he tried to walk us backward side-by-side, and I said, “What are you doing?” then tripped over someone’s foot.
He caught me, and we clung while the music continued.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
His hands encircled my waist. My white-laced hands had grabbed his upper arms. I had held Papa’s thinned arms to help him stand, but Mr. Knightley, his muscles tensed to support me, was a far more formidable handful.
I found my footing, and we straightened. I felt safe. Carefree. Healed.
“I am happy,” I said.
Far away, from the dark of Chathford estate, scarlet glory erupted into the sky.
“He flies,” I said, my heart thrilling.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Knightley said.
A rumble grew. The lanterns flickered, then fluttered. Captain Freeman shouted an order but stopped mid-word, remembering his ship was not afloat.
The air pressed down, thick as an ocean and snapping our scarfs and hems stiff as flags.
It lifted into a floating, eerie stillness.
My head turned to track an invisible arc, then the wind returned in thumping, gusting gales—the beats of monstrous, unseen wings.
They drove to the root of my lungs. They shook my heart.
The night quieted, leaving exclamations and wondering murmurs. The hidden scarlet soared away to the north.