As the Morris men began their dance, Ernest endeavoured to view it through Hebe’s eyes, the rhythmic steps of back and forth, the men looping, weaving, and the bash of broad sticks in perfect accord. A white handkerchief was looped around their spare hand and snapped to the rhythm of the fiddle.
It was ancient and of the earth, and Hebe stared wide-eyed…at the gape in their smocks, he noted, which bared thick throats and muscled tanned chests, the fire causing a sheen to their skin.
“Like them, do you?” he whispered.
The men whirled, their smocks lifting to reveal firelit glimpses of flat stomach and ridged hips, Hebe’s breath hitching.
“They dance very well,” she replied with a grin.
A horse’s head of papier mâché ascended upon a man’s shoulders – black and menacing – and now Hebe gasped.
“Have no fear,” he said, shifting to stand behind her, close enough to scent the rosemary and meadowsweet. But far enough to curse the gap of air between them. “That’s the beast. The evil we must subdue, although he mostly just knocks into things. It’s Thos’s pa under there, so anything may happen.”
“And him?” Hebe pointed to a red-clad man with jester’s hat who scampered into the shepherds’ midst, a pig’s bladder hanging from his stick. He darted amongst the dancers as though bosky, his head perilously close to those bashing sticks, feet mocking their steps, tripping and righting. “It’s all a show, isn’t it?” she whispered. “As he’s rather a good dancer, is he not?”
“Yes, the best of the group. For the fool dances alone and yet amongst them, merging and teasing. The children love him. But like all fools, we know not if he is the foolish one and us the sane onlookers, or whether we are the ones dancing to the clever fool’s tune.”
As he spoke, a few silhouetted locals rose from the blankets and likewise commenced dancing, couples embracing to a swift country jig while maidens clasped one another’s hands and cavorted in circles, laughter lifting to the night sky. Ernest’s fine Irish stable master stood and held out a palm to Mrs Cassell, for this eve was not for stifling propriety; the flames cared not who they lit – Ottoman sultan or Romany queen.
She accepted his hand and Redmond tugged her close.
Alongside the crackle of twig and pop of wood sap from the fire, tinkling bells rang in the meadow grass from the Morris men’s shins, their boots moving to an ancient dance that connected land and bounty, man and woman.
The Wychmere blacksmith took a breath and began to sing.
“I can’t understand the words.” Hebe glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s in a local dialect and rather bawdy so perhaps best you don’t.”
She swayed to the music, hair swinging loose at the dip to her waist, so damn bewitching, and all his good intentions – of allowing her time, of waiting for Hebe to come to him – were withering to naught.
For all he wished to do was lead her into the dark woodland at their backs, to lay her down upon the softness of the lady’s mantle leaves and claim her in the dusk light, with no one but the earth as witness.
The bash of the Morris men’s hazel sticks vibrated his blood, the fiendish flames heating him within, the tune of the fiddle and the accompanying words igniting his molten passion.
Hebe shifted, biting her lip and drawing the hair from her nape, eyes darting from the scene – summer fire, untamed dance and chimes of the forest bells. “I adore this but I also find it…overwhelming and…I don’t know. Both frightening and… I feel breathless. Could we stroll down to the cool of the river, do you think?”
Ernest knew that feeling for what it was – this dance, this celebration that brought both the land and desire to life, a sensual demand now beating from Mother Nature, a rhythmic craving to feel alive and to make love upon a leafy bed.
So they left the forest edge and the untamed celebration behind, skirting the meadow till they met verdant pasture and weaving ribbons of meadowsweet glimmering in the oncoming dusk.
The strains of the fiddle faded to a haunting sigh as they approached the sluggish summer river. A few elegant silver birches shaded the water in clumps, a soft breeze setting their leaves aquiver.
“How beautiful,” she whispered. “It’s much cooler here.” And she trailed a hand over her nape, held her hair aloft, her blue bodice pulling taut against her breast, lips parted and eyes sealed in bliss.
Ernest sealed his own eyes to the arousing vision and swallowed. “Somewhat,” he murmured.
“Do you think…” Hebe whirled in a circle. “Do you think I could kick off my shoes?” She halted mid-whirl. “No, don’t answer that. How improper. The day has surely addled my good sense.”
“Of course you can, my woodland sprite, for this is Wychmere not London, and only I will pay witness to your bared toes.” Ernest surveyed the riverbank, found a convenient fallen trunk and sat. “Come and I will grant your wish. Have you never felt the soft moss beneath your heels or tickling grass in your toes? Even in your London garden?”
“Well… No. Never.”
He raised a brow, waited, watched as she tentatively seated herself at a distance and waggled her slippered foot at him.
“Nearer,” he growled until she raised her foot to his lap.
Then he flicked the button, tugged the shoe off and threw it over his shoulder.
