Morning Song by Karen Robards

was forced into it. 68

    "Well, Jessie—I mean, Miss Jessica—shall we have a go?" He'd known her forever, of course, and as children they'd been Jessie and Mitch to each other, but now he was Mr. Todd and she— But that was precisely the trouble. She was not Miss Jessica. That was the name of an elegant young lady like all the other elegant young ladies. Like Eleanor and Susan and Margaret and Bess.
    "Go on now, Jessica. Have a good time, and don't trouble your head about us."
    Miss Flora, bless her, whether from ignorance or kindness, had ascribed Jessie's hesitation to a pretty unwillingness to leave her two hostesses to themselves.
    "I—" Jessie opened her mouth to refuse, to tell Mitch that he was off the hook because she couldn't dance, didn't want to dance, particularly didn't want to dance with him, of all people, but he seized her hand and pulled her toward the dance floor before she could get the words out.
    "Jessica's going to be our niece now, you know!" Miss Laurel—or was it Miss Flora?—called after them as Mitch drew her out onto the floor. Then he was turning toward her, smiling, while cold sweat prickled down her spine and her feet, like her tongue, turned to stone.
    The music changed. The tempo grew livelier. A murmur ran around the dance floor.
    "A reel!" came the excited cry from all around them. There was a flurry of applause, and then everyone scattered, hurrying to form the parallel lines needed for this dance. Mitch looked at her with a shrug and a smile. Jessie, near giddy with relief at being spared the awful confession that she could not dance, to say nothing of the spectacle she was sure she would make of herself 69

    if she tried, managed to smile back. It was nine-tenths pure relief, but it was a smile.
    Just when Jessie was thinking that there must be a God in heaven after all, just when she was thanking her lucky stars or her patron saint or her fairy godmother or whoever it was who had arranged her salvation, Mitch grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the forming line. Other couples, laughing and chattering, fell in behind and beside them. The gentlemen lined up on one side, the ladies on the other.
    The reel was a general favorite, and this time the dancers included young and old alike. On her left was Margaret Culpepper. On her right was Lissa Chandler, a matron of about Celia's age who was the mother of four young daughters. The fiddler moved to the front of the platform and lifted his fiddle high. The announcer called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, grab your partners!" Then the announcer bowed and stepped back with a flourish. The fiddler struck up, his bow moving busily across the instrument as he scraped out the rollicking rhythm of the reel.
    As the guest of honor, Celia and Stuart were the first to skip through the laughing, clapping corridor. Watching, Jessie supposed that they looked well together. Certainly they were a study in contrasts, with Celia so blond and petite and Stuart Edwards so tall and dark. Celia's cream satin skirt belled out around her as she danced, swinging from side to side and lending her an air of unaccustomed vivacity. Her cheeks were flushed rosily, and her pale gray eyes sparkled. It was an evening of triumph for Celia, and she was clearly enjoying every moment of it. Certainly she looked prettier than Jessie could ever remember seeing her. As for Stuart Edwards—much as Jessie hated to 70

    admit it, and she did hate to admit it, in his elegant black evening clothes he was a sight to steal a female's breath away. Which only went to prove the old adage about beauty being no more than skin-deep.
    But she was obviously the only female of whatever age present who hadn't fallen under the spell of his good looks. Ever since he had arrived, the ladies had been following him with their eyes. The bolder ones had openly flirted with him, reluctantly acknowledging Celia's prior claim but still determined to try their luck. Even some of the older married