“I’d hoped to see Samantha here,” she said, not wanting to pry but wondering his thoughts on the matter, if only to set aside her own misguided hopes.
“I didn’t ask her.” He took her arm as they crossed the muddy, moonlit street. “We’ve decided a wartime courtship is as unwise as it is inconvenient.”
“I understand,” Mae told him. Only too well. Yet they could still dance and forget their momentary troubles, could they not?
As they neared Arnold Tavern’s open front door, a great many guests cascaded about the steps and porch. Lanterns hung from the eaves, the din of the public rooms spilling through open windows into the quiet of the night.
Nerves taut, Mae looked discreetly about for Rhys, but the press of people was too great, and she was swept upstairs to the second floor in a breathless, petticoat-crushing rush. Even James got lost in the crowd.
Great pains had been taken with the ballroom. Shining windows, dozens of fragrant beeswax candles, and a polished floor met her glance before she noticed the chairs and sofas lining the wallpapered perimeter.
By the hearth at the ballroom’s far end stood an exceptionally tall gentleman she knew at once was General Washington. He was resplendent in buff and blue and wore a blue moiré silk ribband as commander-in-chief, his backdrop the new American flag. As she’d heard, he shunned wigs and had simply powdered the front of his hair, leaving the back natural, a hint of russet sneaking through. Beside him was a tiny lady dressed divinely in saffron silk who didn’t even reach his shoulder.
A line snaked about the large room. Officers’ wives dressed in their finest, some with outlandish hairstyles, kept Mae riveted for a few moments. One woman’s coiffure was a foot high and shapedlike a cocked hat—a giant powdered pyramid atop her head. Some even sported red, white, and blue powder.
A few of Chatham’s belles were here, and Mae smiled at those she knew. As she moved forward in line to meet the Washingtons, she looked back over her shoulder now and again and was rewarded at long last.
There, gracing the ballroom’s entrance, stood Rhys. Clad in a handsome blue frock coat and buckskin breeches, he wore a stock, the first she’d seen him in, turning him more gentleman than rifleman. Did he have on the shirt she’d made him? He looked so fine, all the breath left her.
Would he dance with her? Or keep his distance?
The intimacy they’d shared in the Lowantica Valley cabin and then the Chatham kitchen faded in light of the fact they now stood so far apart. In fact, he seemed to not even be aware of her. The officer next to him claimed his complete attention.
As a trio of musicians began tuning their instruments, a woman touched Mae’s lace sleeve with the tip of her folded fan. “What a lovely gown.”
Murmuring her thanks, Mae realized she’d forgotten her fan. Despite the cool damp of spring, the room was warming rapidly. Once the dancing began she’d be berry red.
The line lurched forward, and she soon found herself curtsying in front of the general and his lady as if they were colonial royalty. Her face heating, she read admiration in Mrs. Washington’s gaze—was it for her gown?—and earned a slight smile from General Washington as introductions were made. He even made mention of James’s and Jon’s service.
“Thank you for traveling from Chatham for the festivities, Miss Bohannon,” Mrs. Washington said graciously. “I hope your evening is well spent.”
Curtsying again, Mae moved on, her restless gaze traveling to Rhys, who now stood by a large window. If he hadn’t noticed her, others had. One ... two ... three soldiers paid her a complimentand asked her for a dance in advance. She simply smiled, her gaze returning to Rhys and then hanging on the ballroom’s entrance, where Coralie hovered in her wedding gown.
How had she escaped Aunt Verity?
Her sister spied her immediately and made her way across the floor and around guests till she reached her, eyes red. Had she been crying?
Mae tamped down her dismay. “You’re supposed to be with Aunt Verity.”
“I told her you’d need this.” Coralie reached into her pocket and produced her lace-tipped fan, a sly smile on her pale face.
For a moment Mae’s irritation eased. Thanking her, she extended the fan’s painted folds with a flick of her wrist.
Coralie’s gaze swept the room. “And now that I’m here I must step a country dance or two.”
“A shame Lieutenant Gibbs is elsewhere. You look very pretty.”
Flushing with pleasure, Coralie extended her own fan. “I’m ready to forgive these rebels everything if they provide a fine evening’s entertainment.” Her smile slipped. “I spy General Harlow.”
“You make too much of him. We haven’t even spoken yet.” Now Mae triednotto look at him again lest she appear overeager. “I don’t think he’s noticed me.”
“No matter. Others certainly have. Or perhaps it’s me they’re admiring.” She laughed, suddenly the coquette.
Not even Coralie’s British lieutenant could change that.
eighteen
I dare say the Men would fight very well (if properly Officered), although they are an exceedingly dirty and nasty people.
