Morning Song by Karen Robards Page B

forgot to let go.
    The rest of the dance passed in a blur for her. She smiled, and clapped, and skipped down the corridor on cue, but her focus was entirely on Mitch. Caught in the throes of first love, she scarcely knew whether she was on her head or her toes. All she knew was that the day that had started so horribly had turned into a wonderful, magical evening. She wanted it never to end. 73

    When the reel concluded, she braced herself, sure that he would leave her. Instead he offered her his arm and led her to a chair near the French windows, which had been opened to let in the night air. The band played another tune, and couples whirled about the floor. Jessie watched them, smiling idiotically. Mitch had stayed by her side, not speaking much but there. Jessie was tongue-tied but happy.
    She supposed, dizzily, that he was in much the same state. She dared a sideways glance at him, desperate for some brilliant conversational gambit that would dazzle him. Nothing occurred to her—but he smiled at her anyway.
    "Shall I fetch you some punch?" he asked, getting to his feet. Jessie looked up at him, her eyes vulnerable with happiness, her smile wide. Truthfully, she was loath for him to leave her, but on the other hand, if he fetched her punch he would certainly return, and maybe while he was gone she could think of something to say. If she didn't talk soon, he would think her a complete ninny.
    "That—that would be nice," she managed, her fingers twisting in her lap. He grinned at her, nodded once, and was gone. Jessie watched him make his way across the crowded dance floor toward the punch bowl, and practically sagged with relief. Thank the dear Lord, she had a few minutes to come up with something to say!
    What did men like to talk about? Desperately she recalled the male conversation she had overheard in the minutes before dear, darling Miss Flora had summoned Mitch to her side. Could she talk about hunting, or the price of cotton?
    " . . . can't believe you let that child come out in that—that getup. She looks ridiculous!"
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    "Really, Cynthia, what do you expect me to do? She's eighteen, you know—oh, yes, she is!—and she has a closet full of lovely dresses that she absolutely refuses to wear. I certainly can't force her—why, she's twice my size and, though I hate to tell such tales of my own stepdaughter, possessed of a violent disposition that makes me quite fear her! 'Tis nothing short of a miracle that I got her to come tonight at all. I had to twist her arm, I promise you!"
    "Well, you'll certainly never marry her off while she's tricked out like that! If her mother could see her, she'd spin in her grave!"
    The speakers were Celia, of course, and Mrs. La-tow, Susan's mother. They were strolling together along the edge of the dance floor and obviously had not seen Jessie sitting in her corner. Jessie had only just realized herself that she was in a corner, partially shielded from view by the musicians' platform on one side and the tall window's billowing curtain on the other. Certainly Mrs. Latow had not seen her, and Jessie didn't think Celia had, either. Although they had only to turn their heads, and they would spy her instantly.
    The knowledge that Celia was telling lies about her did not bother her as much as Mrs. Latow's comments about her dress. Celia had lied about her for years; Jessie had given up trying to do anything about that. To defend herself from Celia's particular brand of malice was like boxing with shadows; one can't hit what one can't see. At first she'd been surprised when the neighbors had started to give her the cold shoulder, and later, when the cause became clear, hurt that they would believe Celia's tales. But then it had simply ceased to bother her. She didn't need 75

    them, any of them. She was happy with her animals and the servants for company.
    But Mrs. Latow had said she looked ridiculous. That hurt. Jessie looked down at herself, at the faded, too-tight sprig muslin with