He had come here with the full intention of nodding amiably to Lydia, exchanging a few friendly words in passing if he came face-to-face with her, and keeping his distance the rest of the evening without being too obvious about it. He would treat her as he did everyone else and as he had done for most of the past four years, for he had never deliberately ignored or avoided her then. He simply had not noticed her. He could not go back to those days, of course, but he could set the tone for the future.
Yet here he was about to dance with her, even over her own protests and her very reasonable argument that since she had refused three other partners it would be poor manners to accept him. He had persisted, with the encouragement of a few of his neighbors, who seemed to agree that it was high time she danced.
He escorted her to the line of ladies, bowed over her hand, and took his place in the line of men. He hoped she wasnotabout to make a spectacle of herself and go prancing off to her left while everyone else glided gracefully to their right, for example. She would be horribly embarrassed and would almost certainly never dance again. And he would be left knowing that it was all his fault.
There was something different about her tonight. Well, yes, of course there was. One would have to be blind not to notice. She was looking slender and dainty and pretty in her rose pink gown. Her chestnut hair glowed in the candlelight. How clever of her to wear it in a simple style so that the smooth sheen of it would not be lost in curls and ringlets. Or was it only that she did not have a maid? She wore no jewelry. Because she did not have any to wear? Or because she had aimed for simplicity and got it perfect? Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her face bright with animation though not openly smiling.
But there was something else over and above the obvious differences—which were startling enough in themselves.
It was partly her eyes, he decided at last. They were wide and unguarded and looked about the room with frank interest. Including at him. She was looking at him now and did not glance away when she saw him gazing back. Or lower her eyes. And yes,thatwas what it was. She was not in hiding tonight. She had worn that particular dress to be noticed. She had left off her cap to be noticed. And there was her chin as well as her eyes. It was raised. Not defiantly or belligerently but … proudly? Was that the right word?
It struck Harry that she was neither the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor’s wife tonight nor his widow. She was herself. Lydia Tavernor. Perhaps the Lydia Winterbourne she had once been.
The orchestra struck a chord, the ladies curtsied, the men bowed, and the dancing began.
She did not make a spectacle of herself.
She danced with deliberate care, he noticed, each step and gesture one fraction of a second behind those of her nearest neighbors as though she wanted to be quite sure before she committed herself that she was getting it right. Her movements were deliberate and slightly wooden for the first little while, until they had performed all the figures once and she was confident that she could do them again without committing some ghastly faux pas. She smiled at him as they met between the lines with another couple and all four clasped hands above their heads and danced a full circle before returning to their places.
And good God, she was beautiful.
When they reached the head of the lines and their turn came to twirl alone down the middle while the other dancers clapped and tapped their feet to the rhythm, she looked at him with sparkling eyes and actually laughed. The woodenness was long gone from her movements, as well as the concentration upon getting the steps right, and what was left was pure, light-footed grace. There was music and rhythm and color and light, and there was Lydia to embody them all.
Harry laughed too.
He was in a bit of danger here, he thought. He might even be in a lot of danger.
“Thank you,” she said when the set came to an end far too soon, and perhaps just as far too late. “I am relieved that I did not disgrace you after all. Denise was right. One does not forget how to dance. I must go and speak with Mrs. Bartlett. She was still not sure when I talked to her yesterday that she would come tonight. I am glad she did.”
He escorted her to her next-door neighbor’s side, stayed to chat for a minute or two, and then strolled away to have a few words with Mr. and Mrs. Raymore and solicit Theresa’s hand for the next set. He danced after that with Mirabel Hill, Miss Ardreigh, Hannah Corning, and Mrs. Bailey. He drank a glass of wine with Lawrence and his uncle and ate a plate of food while the orchestra was taking a break. He was enjoying himself as he always did at the village assemblies. There was something so relaxed and merry about them.
And he was constantly aware of Lydia. He supposed it was inevitable. It would surely fade with time. He would simply have to be patient with himself. She danced every set and mingled between sets, smiling and conversing and generally being everything she had never been before to his knowledge. She positivelyglowed. She looked vividly lovely. She did not attempt even once to hide in any corner or disappear inside herself.
He found himself wondering if this transformation had anything to do with him. She would not marry again. She had been quite adamant about that from the start. But she had also learned from her experience with him that having a lover was an impossible thing when one lived in a village the size of Fairfield. Had she decided as a result of that realization to reach out to friends and friendly acquaintances for happiness? To do it in an active way, not as an observer from a shadowy corner but as a full participant?
Perhaps after all he had done her some good.
Harry was standing close to the doors of the assembly rooms late in the evening with the Reverend Bailey and his wife, when they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a young man Harry believed was one of Sir Maynard Hill’s farm laborers. He was not dressed for the occasion and in fact seemed to have come in from outside. He was very wet—and frowning and breathless as he caught the vicar by the arm.
“It’s my gran, Reverend,” he said. “She has taken a turn for the worse and Ma thinks she is going fast. I came for the doctor and for you too if you will.”
“Ah, it is time, then, is it, John?” the vicar said in his calm, kindly manner, patting the young man’s hand before raising his arm and beckoning Dr. Powis, who left his wife’s side and came striding toward them. “Mrs. Wickend is coming to the end, Powis, and we are needed, you and I. You came on horseback, John?”
“I did,” the young man said.
“The doctor and I will take my carriage, then,” the Reverend Bailey said. “It is still raining, is it? Foolish question. You are soaked.”
“It’s coming down like cats and dogs out there, Reverend,” John Wickend said.
“My dear—” Bailey began, turning to his wife.
“You must not worry about me, Stanley,” she said, interrupting him. “Someone will give me a ride home. You go.”
“It will be my pleasure to convey Mrs. Bailey home,” Harry said as Sir Maynard approached to find out why one of his laborers had arrived in the rooms looking like a drowned rat, as he put it.
“Gran is on the way out, sir,” the young man explained. “Ma sent me for the doctor and the reverend.”
“Off you go,” Mrs. Bailey said briskly. “Both of you.”
