THE DANCE
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Elizabeth’s mother positioned the tiara to her satisfaction. It was borrowed, as was the gown, and the silver dancing slippers with yellow bows. Beth, only Elizabeth to her mother, fidgeted under the pressing weight of her mother’s hands. “It’s too tight on my brow mother, I might as well wear it as a collar.” Her escort was Reg Hightower, and she knew Reg would think her overdressed, perhaps even silly.
Always on time, the doorbell chime sounded at 6:45. Mrs. Scott insisted on greeting Reg. A young woman should keep her man waiting, beauty has no clock was her motto. She had changed her dress three times within the past half hour, and now radiated graciousness in the red taffeta with long sleeves. “Coming” she sang out while standing away from the door, “Just a moment please.” A man with sophisticated charm was her opinion of Reg, and she opened the door with a flourish, singing “welcome, welcome.”
Beatrix Scott was a large woman who liked men of small stature. Her deceased husband Freddie was forever rubbing the back of his neck from prolonged periods of looking up to his wife. Reg reminded her of Freddie. Both men dressed elegantly in gray striped trousers, black tail-coat, with a grey top hat. Standing at attention, his left hand held a gold cigarette holder with a red tip, wafting smoke rose from the fashionable cigarillo. The right hand at his brow formed a smart salute as he spoke. “Dear Mrs. S. there can be no secret as to the origin of Beth’s beauty.” “Oh silly boy, do come in from that dreadful cold, our lovely one shall soon be down.”
Beth gripped the bannister as it helped to maintain a proper upright posture as she descended the curved dark mahogany staircase. Hours upon hours had been spent in younger days being tutored by her mother. “Imagine a string going through your spine from your head, lower your shoulders, and suck in your stomach.” She looked down upon the two with a Duchenne smile, thinking “I shall live in a single story home, dress as I choose, and let my children be themselves.”
Reg enlisted his friend Winston to act as both footman and driver. In return, he promised to help the aspiring young actor with his lines in Othello, this time playing Roderigo. Jostled about from the cobblestone street, Beth needed to raise her voice above the clatter of metal wheels, and asked forgiveness for looking like the Virgin Queen. “Nonsense” was the reply, “You share a lovely name and beautiful red hair, but she was so serious and you so joyful.” Beth sought a clever response, but could only muster a demur “Thank you.”
Winston turned back and spoke to his new passenger. “You don’t remember me, but I spoiled your yellow dress with mud splatter on an Easter morning, and Rector Williams threatened me with lashes for my naughtiness.” Beth thought for a moment and than burst out gleefully, “On your knees, errant knight, what maiden deserves such foolish folly.” He threw his head back, and smiled broadly, “Perhaps fifteen years ago, and yet you remember your line. May I repeat, ‘Lovely maiden, on one knee I bend, lest I may be called to promptly rise to protect such an innocent.” Their eyes exchanged a fond moment kept like a pressed rose.
A parade of carriages passed through the towering gold leaf gates. The palatial estate home of Lord and Lady Smithfield was illuminated on a low hill in the distance with Roman torches showing the way. Dancers, jesters, acrobats, and musicians pranced and performed at every turn of the road, and Beth strained to catch each passing performance. “Come sit up here” beckoned Winston, “You’ll not miss a moment.” She turned toward Reg with a mischievous look seeking approval. He rolled back his eyes in mocked alarm, lifted the tiara off her head, tussled her hair, and waved her up to the driver’s bench.
The pair waved, clapped, and called out encouragement to each group of performers, often singing along when their spirit could not be contained. When Beth’s father died suddenly at age forty, it was Lady Smithfield who saved mother and daughter from the poorhouse. In return, Beth cherished the moments to see her benefactress, and volunteered at the orphanage, Lady Smithfield’s prized endeavor, known simply as Children’s Home. While Beatrix understood the charity they received at such a low point, her singular goal was seeing her daughter married to a man of means like Reg Hightower, and knew Reg looked askance on the poor and less privileged.
Reg banged on the drivers seat to signal enough is enough and looked crossly at Beth for behavior he considered beneath his accustomed position. Her first reaction was anger at being treated like a child, but quickly felt the presence of her mother’s disapproval, and rejoined her escort, repairing a wind blown appearance.
As the carriage stopped in front of the outside grand staircase, a Smithfield servant immediately placed a silver step at the foot of their door, while a second stood ready to assist. Suddenly it was Winston maneuvering himself into the position to take Beth’s hand while slightly bowing down in a manner of playful deference. As Reg stepped down, he bumped his friend aside and wagged his finger as if to say “She’s mine.” Observing the interplay, Beth felt a moment of delight as she ascended the flower strewn steps.
In the receiving line as they neared their hosts, Lady Smithfield caught Beth’s attention, and with a head nod beckoned her to follow. Closing the parlor doors, she took both of Beth’s hands in a firm squeeze. “Just the break I needed, John can carry on without me for a few minutes. How are you my dear Elizabeth Scott?” Beth beamed in return, and a blush appeared on her cheeks as she was motioned toward two beautifully carved Rocaille upholstered armchairs. “I am always most happy to be in your presence my Lady, thank you for the most generous invitation.” “When we are alone, please call me Rosalee, I do miss being called by my name. Tell me something about your day. It’s foolish and unkind for me to complain about anything, but too often I feel closed off and abandoned to privileged boredom and self-indulgence.”
Beth sat at the edge of her chair, hands folded as if praying for forgiveness of sin, and looking downward. “My Lady, forgive me, Rosalee, your kindness and generosity are a salvation to our village. I see it at the orphanage, at the marketplace with your donations, and at the hospital with your nurse training program. If people are afraid to approach and express their gratefulness, it is only because they feel too uneducated to speak with any confidence.”
Rosalee waved her right hand as if signaling a vital admission had to be confessed. “My father sailed from Bristol as a stowaway in 1850 without a pence in his pocket to New York City. His first job in America was collecting near rotten fruit and vegetables from the bins to resell to the poorest of fellow immigrants. In ten years, he had two grocery stores of his own, employed twenty men and the one woman who would become my mother. I was the first one in my family to have a proper education, and all that I have, I owe to their sweat and perseverance.”
Beth looked up in astonishment, “But you’re Lady Smithfield, you’re as near royalty as any of us will ever see.” “Elizabeth my dear one, you and I are so much alike. My father, like yours, died at an early age. My mother put all her energy into her aspirations for my life, as Beatrix does for you. Our challenge is to find our own independence and to follow our own dreams. I had an inheritance that helped Lord Smithfield retain his family’s property, and with marriage, love has also followed.” This admission of such personal expression left Beth utterly speechless, and try as she might, tears flowed. “Oh dear one,” spoke the Lady as she stood and reached out for Beth to stand, “What tender nerve have I accidentally touched?” The kindness of one so above her station further strained her emotions. “You asked about my day. The carriage ride this evening to your manor, perhaps twenty minutes in length, brought more joy than I can recall in years. An old friend rekindled a spark I thought long lost, and your caring has deeply struck that nerve you speak of.”
There were dances, vocalists entertained, and actors performed. As was the custom, there came the moment when all the men left the ballroom as the women formed a line in front of the mirrored wall. As the orchestra sounded “The British Grenadiers,” the men entered marching from the far side. Each wore a mask to conceal their identity as they paraded in a broad circle. Several men jumped position as the 17th century song neared the conclusion. Pushing and laughter erupted as each stopped in front of a woman on the final note. The man before Beth was taller than Reg, but not a person whose identity she could guess. The Hesitation Waltz began with a slight bend of the knee, straightening, followed by a slight rise of the toes. For a moment, it was her mother she mentally thanked for insisting on the dancing classes. Her partner moved gracefully with confidence and poise. Perhaps wanting to keep his identity a secret, he mouthed a silent “Hello.” There came a brief moment when their cheeks lightly touched, and a familiar masculine scent caused her olfactory sensory neurons to seemingly explode, it was Winston.
A chime signaled refreshments, and Beth joined other guests moving toward the dining hall. Suddenly, a hand forcefully gripped her forearm, and Reg spoke with anger. “A friend has betrayed me, are you willing to do the same?” At first she was puzzled by the question, and her immediate reaction was to shake his arm away. “Why would you grab me so, how have I offended you?” Without waiting for an answer she marched ahead and spying glass doors leading out to the balcony, sought fresh night air to gather her thoughts.
Stung by the realization that others orchestrated her life, she suddenly shouted to the distant forest, “I have the right to choose!” Quickly looking around and finding her outburst was not heard, she freely laughed and twirled with her gown flaring like a colorful umbrella. A voice from a dark corner caught her by surprise. “Lucky is the man who could know such a woman,” and Winston stepped into the light, extending both hands. “Lady Smithfield has summoned the two of us, and I’m guessing the orphanage is on her mind. She asked if I had ever taught theatre, and would I be willing to work for a female administrator.
Rosalee Smithfield’s study held floor to ceiling mahogany bookcases on two sides, a large desk facing burgundy wingback chairs, and glass panel doors open to a private deck with a marble fountain. Water, looking like mercury flowed from the mouths of five cherubs leaning out from the center pedestal, and the rhythmic splash coupled with a slight mist was a restful balm for Beth.
“Let others dance, enjoy chocolate and champagne, we three need to move the orphanage forward, the children deserve a better chance at life”. Rosalee opened a leather portfolio case as she continued to speak, “If you are willing, Lord Smithfield and I wish to employ the two of you as paid staff. A London consortium of orphanages, both public and private have elected me as their new president, and frequent time away requires new leadership here at Children’s Home.” A feeling swept over Beth, at first difficult to understand, as if a new creature was evolving, a women capable of new beginnings. The dance ended with fireworks lighting the grounds. The three paused from their planning session to observe the final festivities from the private deck. Beth looked down and saw Reg happily armed with a known social climber from the neighboring town. A deep breath was energizing.
The guests had departed, and servants were scurrying to reset the public rooms as Beth and Winston descend the staircase, Lord Smithfield’s carriage was out front waiting to take the twosome home. A candle illuminated the image of Beatrix behind the shear front curtain as the carriage door was opened for Beth. In times past, too often confrontations with her mother brought physical illness. A wisp of cool night air brushed against her face, and a quote memorized from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre filled her mind, “I am no bird; and no nest ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.” She entered her home.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Elizabeth’s mother positioned the tiara to her satisfaction. It was borrowed, as was the gown, and the silver dancing slippers with yellow bows. Beth, only Elizabeth to her mother, fidgeted under the pressing weight of her mother’s hands. “It’s too tight on my brow mother, I might as well wear it as a collar.” Her escort was Reg Hightower, and she knew Reg would think her overdressed, perhaps even silly.
Always on time, the doorbell chime sounded at 6:45. Mrs. Scott insisted on greeting Reg. A young woman should keep her man waiting, beauty has no clock was her motto. She had changed her dress three times within the past half hour, and now radiated graciousness in the red taffeta with long sleeves. “Coming” she sang out while standing away from the door, “Just a moment please.” A man with sophisticated charm was her opinion of Reg, and she opened the door with a flourish, singing “welcome, welcome.”
Beatrix Scott was a large woman who liked men of small stature. Her deceased husband Freddie was forever rubbing the back of his neck from prolonged periods of looking up to his wife. Reg reminded her of Freddie. Both men dressed elegantly in gray striped trousers, black tail-coat, with a grey top hat. Standing at attention, his left hand held a gold cigarette holder with a red tip, wafting smoke rose from the fashionable cigarillo. The right hand at his brow formed a smart salute as he spoke. “Dear Mrs. S. there can be no secret as to the origin of Beth’s beauty.” “Oh silly boy, do come in from that dreadful cold, our lovely one shall soon be down.”
Beth gripped the bannister as it helped to maintain a proper upright posture as she descended the curved dark mahogany staircase. Hours upon hours had been spent in younger days being tutored by her mother. “Imagine a string going through your spine from your head, lower your shoulders, and suck in your stomach.” She looked down upon the two with a Duchenne smile, thinking “I shall live in a single story home, dress as I choose, and let my children be themselves.”
Reg enlisted his friend Winston to act as both footman and driver. In return, he promised to help the aspiring young actor with his lines in Othello, this time playing Roderigo. Jostled about from the cobblestone street, Beth needed to raise her voice above the clatter of metal wheels, and asked forgiveness for looking like the Virgin Queen. “Nonsense” was the reply, “You share a lovely name and beautiful red hair, but she was so serious and you so joyful.” Beth sought a clever response, but could only muster a demur “Thank you.”
Winston turned back and spoke to his new passenger. “You don’t remember me, but I spoiled your yellow dress with mud splatter on an Easter morning, and Rector Williams threatened me with lashes for my naughtiness.” Beth thought for a moment and than burst out gleefully, “On your knees, errant knight, what maiden deserves such foolish folly.” He threw his head back, and smiled broadly, “Perhaps fifteen years ago, and yet you remember your line. May I repeat, ‘Lovely maiden, on one knee I bend, lest I may be called to promptly rise to protect such an innocent.” Their eyes exchanged a fond moment kept like a pressed rose.
A parade of carriages passed through the towering gold leaf gates. The palatial estate home of Lord and Lady Smithfield was illuminated on a low hill in the distance with Roman torches showing the way. Dancers, jesters, acrobats, and musicians pranced and performed at every turn of the road, and Beth strained to catch each passing performance. “Come sit up here” beckoned Winston, “You’ll not miss a moment.” She turned toward Reg with a mischievous look seeking approval. He rolled back his eyes in mocked alarm, lifted the tiara off her head, tussled her hair, and waved her up to the driver’s bench.
The pair waved, clapped, and called out encouragement to each group of performers, often singing along when their spirit could not be contained. When Beth’s father died suddenly at age forty, it was Lady Smithfield who saved mother and daughter from the poorhouse. In return, Beth cherished the moments to see her benefactress, and volunteered at the orphanage, Lady Smithfield’s prized endeavor, known simply as Children’s Home. While Beatrix understood the charity they received at such a low point, her singular goal was seeing her daughter married to a man of means like Reg Hightower, and knew Reg looked askance on the poor and less privileged.
Reg banged on the drivers seat to signal enough is enough and looked crossly at Beth for behavior he considered beneath his accustomed position. Her first reaction was anger at being treated like a child, but quickly felt the presence of her mother’s disapproval, and rejoined her escort, repairing a wind blown appearance.
As the carriage stopped in front of the outside grand staircase, a Smithfield servant immediately placed a silver step at the foot of their door, while a second stood ready to assist. Suddenly it was Winston maneuvering himself into the position to take Beth’s hand while slightly bowing down in a manner of playful deference. As Reg stepped down, he bumped his friend aside and wagged his finger as if to say “She’s mine.” Observing the interplay, Beth felt a moment of delight as she ascended the flower strewn steps.
In the receiving line as they neared their hosts, Lady Smithfield caught Beth’s attention, and with a head nod beckoned her to follow. Closing the parlor doors, she took both of Beth’s hands in a firm squeeze. “Just the break I needed, John can carry on without me for a few minutes. How are you my dear Elizabeth Scott?” Beth beamed in return, and a blush appeared on her cheeks as she was motioned toward two beautifully carved Rocaille upholstered armchairs. “I am always most happy to be in your presence my Lady, thank you for the most generous invitation.” “When we are alone, please call me Rosalee, I do miss being called by my name. Tell me something about your day. It’s foolish and unkind for me to complain about anything, but too often I feel closed off and abandoned to privileged boredom and self-indulgence.”
Beth sat at the edge of her chair, hands folded as if praying for forgiveness of sin, and looking downward. “My Lady, forgive me, Rosalee, your kindness and generosity are a salvation to our village. I see it at the orphanage, at the marketplace with your donations, and at the hospital with your nurse training program. If people are afraid to approach and express their gratefulness, it is only because they feel too uneducated to speak with any confidence.”
Rosalee waved her right hand as if signaling a vital admission had to be confessed. “My father sailed from Bristol as a stowaway in 1850 without a pence in his pocket to New York City. His first job in America was collecting near rotten fruit and vegetables from the bins to resell to the poorest of fellow immigrants. In ten years, he had two grocery stores of his own, employed twenty men and the one woman who would become my mother. I was the first one in my family to have a proper education, and all that I have, I owe to their sweat and perseverance.”
Beth looked up in astonishment, “But you’re Lady Smithfield, you’re as near royalty as any of us will ever see.” “Elizabeth my dear one, you and I are so much alike. My father, like yours, died at an early age. My mother put all her energy into her aspirations for my life, as Beatrix does for you. Our challenge is to find our own independence and to follow our own dreams. I had an inheritance that helped Lord Smithfield retain his family’s property, and with marriage, love has also followed.” This admission of such personal expression left Beth utterly speechless, and try as she might, tears flowed. “Oh dear one,” spoke the Lady as she stood and reached out for Beth to stand, “What tender nerve have I accidentally touched?” The kindness of one so above her station further strained her emotions. “You asked about my day. The carriage ride this evening to your manor, perhaps twenty minutes in length, brought more joy than I can recall in years. An old friend rekindled a spark I thought long lost, and your caring has deeply struck that nerve you speak of.”
There were dances, vocalists entertained, and actors performed. As was the custom, there came the moment when all the men left the ballroom as the women formed a line in front of the mirrored wall. As the orchestra sounded “The British Grenadiers,” the men entered marching from the far side. Each wore a mask to conceal their identity as they paraded in a broad circle. Several men jumped position as the 17th century song neared the conclusion. Pushing and laughter erupted as each stopped in front of a woman on the final note. The man before Beth was taller than Reg, but not a person whose identity she could guess. The Hesitation Waltz began with a slight bend of the knee, straightening, followed by a slight rise of the toes. For a moment, it was her mother she mentally thanked for insisting on the dancing classes. Her partner moved gracefully with confidence and poise. Perhaps wanting to keep his identity a secret, he mouthed a silent “Hello.” There came a brief moment when their cheeks lightly touched, and a familiar masculine scent caused her olfactory sensory neurons to seemingly explode, it was Winston.
A chime signaled refreshments, and Beth joined other guests moving toward the dining hall. Suddenly, a hand forcefully gripped her forearm, and Reg spoke with anger. “A friend has betrayed me, are you willing to do the same?” At first she was puzzled by the question, and her immediate reaction was to shake his arm away. “Why would you grab me so, how have I offended you?” Without waiting for an answer she marched ahead and spying glass doors leading out to the balcony, sought fresh night air to gather her thoughts.
Stung by the realization that others orchestrated her life, she suddenly shouted to the distant forest, “I have the right to choose!” Quickly looking around and finding her outburst was not heard, she freely laughed and twirled with her gown flaring like a colorful umbrella. A voice from a dark corner caught her by surprise. “Lucky is the man who could know such a woman,” and Winston stepped into the light, extending both hands. “Lady Smithfield has summoned the two of us, and I’m guessing the orphanage is on her mind. She asked if I had ever taught theatre, and would I be willing to work for a female administrator.
Rosalee Smithfield’s study held floor to ceiling mahogany bookcases on two sides, a large desk facing burgundy wingback chairs, and glass panel doors open to a private deck with a marble fountain. Water, looking like mercury flowed from the mouths of five cherubs leaning out from the center pedestal, and the rhythmic splash coupled with a slight mist was a restful balm for Beth.
“Let others dance, enjoy chocolate and champagne, we three need to move the orphanage forward, the children deserve a better chance at life”. Rosalee opened a leather portfolio case as she continued to speak, “If you are willing, Lord Smithfield and I wish to employ the two of you as paid staff. A London consortium of orphanages, both public and private have elected me as their new president, and frequent time away requires new leadership here at Children’s Home.” A feeling swept over Beth, at first difficult to understand, as if a new creature was evolving, a women capable of new beginnings. The dance ended with fireworks lighting the grounds. The three paused from their planning session to observe the final festivities from the private deck. Beth looked down and saw Reg happily armed with a known social climber from the neighboring town. A deep breath was energizing.
The guests had departed, and servants were scurrying to reset the public rooms as Beth and Winston descend the staircase, Lord Smithfield’s carriage was out front waiting to take the twosome home. A candle illuminated the image of Beatrix behind the shear front curtain as the carriage door was opened for Beth. In times past, too often confrontations with her mother brought physical illness. A wisp of cool night air brushed against her face, and a quote memorized from Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre filled her mind, “I am no bird; and no nest ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.” She entered her home.
RICHARD SWAIN