A Buss from Lafayette (14 page)

I did note that Dickon did not seem to be in the flock, however.

As Joss went over to join his friends, I moved behind my father and uncle, hoping that none of the boys would notice I was there. I much preferred remaining a wallflower by my own choice, rather than face active rejection by the young men loitering by the cakes, pies, and punch.

Soon I heard several fiddles, a cello, and a couple of bass viols being tuned. A raised platform occupied one corner of the room, where the musicians were turning the ebony knobs on their instruments. Their faces were all familiar to me. They were the same men who played to accompany the choir and the congregation hymn singing at First Church, where I had gone just about every Sunday of my life.

The small orchestra started playing music, and two lines of dancers quickly formed.

It soon became obvious that my flirtatious cousin was as anxious to be noticed as I was anxious to stay unnoticed. I watched, in a kind of appalled fascination, as she took up a position in front of our fathers and
pulled out her lacy white fan. She started languidly fanning herself, glancing every once in awhile at the young men across the way. Whenever Hetty would fix her gaze upon one of them over the top of her fan, whomever she selected would jerk into motion, cross the room, and ask her for a dance.

For once I was glad to be short in stature, so I could more easily hide behind my father and uncle.

I riveted my eyes to the floor.
If I do not look at anyone, they will not see me. I shall be invisible,
I thought.
Or at least I hope I shall.

C
HAPTER 23

Soon, however, my attention was distracted by the conversation going on in front of me between my father and my uncle.

“I must admit, Samuel, I was quite excited to meet Lafayette in Derry the other day,” Uncle Timothy confessed. “I did not titter like those giggly schoolgirls, but my heart was certainly fluttering away inside my chest.”

Father replied that he had been reading the newspaper accounts about Lafayette and still could not grasp how much he had accomplished when such a very young man. “I know that there are those who say he was merely a glory seeker, but he proved his worth time and time again in situations where only trouble and expense were to be gained and ‘glory’ was nowhere in sight.”

Uncle Timothy heartily agreed, then told of one such example, when Washington had given Lafayette the command of a select corps of Light Infantry that included troops from New Hampshire. Lafayette had outfitted his corps with uniforms and had given
each officer a sword, mostly at his own expense. Washington had then sent Lafayette and his men to Virginia to pursue Benedict Arnold, who had been made an officer in the British army after his treachery at West Point.

“Who was Benedict Arnold, Uncle?” I asked. “What did he do at West Point?”

The two men turned around as if surprised I were there.
Maybe my stratagem to be invisible is working,
I mused.
I hope it works on the rest of the room, too!

Father explained that Benedict Arnold had been one of Washington’s most able generals, whose actions had won the battle at Saratoga. Without that victory, the French would not have been our allies, no matter how persuasive Lafayette had been at the French court. But the credit for winning the battle of Saratoga had gone to General Gates instead of Benedict Arnold.

“That, and other ‘slights’ to his ‘brilliance,’ sent Arnold into a royal sulk. Literally,” Uncle Timothy continued. “Eventually, he decided to sell out to the British.”

I listened, horrified, to how Arnold had asked Washington to make him the commander at West Point, the fort controlling the Hudson River. Then he had given the plans of the fort to the British, so they could have easily conquered it, controlled the river,
and cut New England off from the rest of the colonies. If successful, Arnold’s plan would have led to the death of many of his own soldiers.

“Luckily, the plans never made it to Clinton, the British general. Arnold’s treachery became known to Washington in the nick of time,” Father went on. “They caught and hanged Andre, the British go-between, but Arnold himself escaped. The British eventually gave him a command when they took the war to the South.”

Uncle Timothy made a face. “So when the traitor Arnold started laying waste to Virginia, Washington sent Lafayette to stop the turncoat, capture him, and hang him. But Lafayette never was able to catch Arnold before the traitor was ordered back to the North.”

I moved up next to them. Their talk was too interesting to miss, even if it meant leaving my hiding place. To tell the truth, I found myself wanting to learn as much as I could about this Frenchman who had done so much for my country.

Father said that Lafayette had stayed on in the South with his men. “Then, when the ferocious summer heat in Virginia made many of the New Englanders ready to desert—I am most sorry to say—Lafayette talked them into staying by appealing to their pride, rather than by shooting those who led the revolt, as some other American commanders did. He told them he knew that their task was going to be difficult and
dangerous, but that he himself was willing to stay and face whatever came. And they stayed with him. Now, that is no glory seeker; that is merely a young man of most admirable character.”

Some of the young people on the dance floor whooped as a line of ladies galloped down the room, away from a string of men in pursuit. In and out they wove, back and forth, circling around.

“You know, Tim, watching these dancers reminds me of when Cornwallis, the British commander in the South, found out that Lafayette was in Virginia and tried to capture him. Lafayette was badly outnumbered, so he kept dancing away from Cornwallis, skittering away time and again, staying just out of reach.”

“Like a
danc
e? Really, Father?” I asked.

“A
deadly
dance, my dear. If Cornwallis had caught up with Lafayette, there would not have been bows and curtsies involved.”

Uncle Timothy snorted. “Some say Cornwallis was so frustrated that he could not defeat ‘the Boy’—let alone capture him—in Virginia, that he holed up at the town of Yorktown in a kind of a sulk, himself.”

Father said that Cornwallis later claimed that General Clinton ordered him to go there to fortify a deep water port for the British fleet.

“I still think he was sulking, however, especially after it became clear that ‘the Boy’ had forces enough
to keep him pinned down at Yorktown,” replied my uncle.

Father chuckled. “Well, whatever Cornwallis was doing, his staying there led to an ignominious defeat.”

“And an ultimate victory for America,” Uncle Timothy finished triumphantly. “Thank goodness.”

The lively little orchestra struck up another tune. My uncle listened intently, then held his hand out to me.

“They are playing ‘The Country Attorney,’ my dear niece. I believe I am obliged to dance this one, as it is in my honor, so to speak.”

“But I do not know the steps, sir,” I protested.

“Do not worry, my girl, I do. I have danced it often with my wife. I will tell you what to do.”

With great reluctance, I followed him onto the dance floor.

C
HAPTER 24

Uncle Timothy swept me into line with the other girls, and then took his place in the men’s line.

As I awkwardly followed my uncle’s whispered directions, I wished I could sink right through the floor.

“The names of some of these dances are really comical,” said Uncle Timothy, a little breathless from the movements of the dance.“‘Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself,’ ‘Drops of Brandy,’ ‘Careless Sally,’ ’What a Beau Your Granny Was.’ Which name is your favorite, Clara?”

Forgetting for the moment that I was no doubt the clumsiest girl on the dance floor, I grinned at him. “’The Swinish Multitude’ and ‘Peas Upon a Trencher’ are quite funny. I like to picture the young gentlemen here as ‘pigs’ and ‘peas’, then I do not feel so shy around them.”

When we got back to where my father was standing with Hetty, I looked around and tried to decide which of the gentlemen in the crowd were pigs and which were peas. I was so lost in amusing myself that I failed
to notice right away when someone stopped in front of me and bent over in a formal bow.

When I finally did notice, I realized who was bowing to me, and therefore bowing to Hetty, too, apparently. Dickon Weeks. A Dickon Weeks dressed in far more elegant clothing than I had ever seen him in before. He looked nothing like a penguin, however. Although his shirt, cravat, and vest were white like the other young men’s, his pantaloons were of tan nankeen, and his jacket was a rich green. Even his hair looked different. It was styled in the current fashion, combed down around his face in curls so he looked like a Roman emperor. I had to admit that the style looked better on him than it had on the balding Mr. Townes. Far better. I found myself a bit dazzled by this new, handsomer version of my old tormentor. Reminding myself that he just might be tormenting me in a new way, I tried to hide my admiration, as I joined Hetty in a deep, formal curtsy.

After we all straightened up, Dickon cleared his throat. “Um, Miss Hargraves, would you do me the honor . . .”

Before he could finish, Hetty interrupted. “La, sir, I would be delighted to dance with you!”

She reached out and firmly clamped her hand around his arm. “I thought you would never ask. And I was so hoping you would. But will not someone
introduce us?” She gave a sidelong glance at me, a glance that had ever so tiny a drop of venom in it, not to mention a tidbit of triumph.

“Hetty, may I present Mr. Richard Weeks. Dickon, this is my cousin, Miss Hargraves. Miss
Henrietta
Hargraves.”

“But I . . . that is . . . ah . . . yes, it would be an honor to dance with you, Miss Hargraves.” With an oddly apologetic look at me, Dickon led Hetty to the dance floor for the next reel.

Hetty and Dickon curtsied and bowed to each other and started the figures of the dance. I stood rooted to the floor, watching them put their arms around each other in passing as they did the required turns, take hands as they led up the set, and smile at each other the entire time. I was astonished to find that their apparent enjoyment of the dance and of each other was something I did not like at all. This was definitely a new kind of torment.

After the dance was over, Dickon escorted Hetty back to my father. Then, to my infinite surprise, the provoking boy bowed to me once again. “Miss
Clara
Hargraves, will you now do me the honor?” he said.

As we walked to take our places in the lines, the fiddler announced loudly that the next dance would be “Again, Sweet Richard.”

I laughed out loud. “Really, Dickon, it is very funny
that you have asked me to dance to this tune. You must have an elevated notion of yourself. ‘Sweet Richard,’ indeed!”

“But I did not know that this piece was going to be played . . .”

“And your hair, Dickon. What did you do to make it so fashionable?”

He flushed. “My older sisters got hold of me and insisted on putting it in curl papers.”

“Really? My aunt did the same to me!”

He leaned forward and confided that if he were not wearing his older brother’s jacket, he would go outside and stick his head in the watering trough to get rid of the silly curls.

“Frankly, I would do the same if I could, Dickon,” I said.

We looked at each other and burst into laughter, which stopped only when the dance began.

Somehow I managed to do the steps—and in the proper order, too. My excellent memory came to my aid, and I recalled the dancing master’s lessons perfectly. I even found myself enjoying the dance, especially the part in which Dickon and I circled those beside us in our respective lines and then leaned around to peek at each other.

Who ever would have imagined that dancing with Dickon Weeks would actually be fun?
I thought.

After the final bow and curtsy, however, I discovered that I was dripping with perspiration. “My stepmother would say I am in a state of inelegance,” I said ruefully. “I wish I had a handkerchief to wipe some of it off. Could we please go outside for a moment to cool off?”