Somewhere in the World

Chapter 8

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As dusk settled on Lovell on Christmas Day, Mr. Thornton leaned against the wall of the parlor, where the furniture has been pushed to the perimeters of the large room to provide ample space for dancing. A small string quartet had set up in an alcove, and the company strolled about the room in anticipation of the merriment to come, or clustered about chatting happily about the last time they had danced, or heard music.

Earlier that day, Mr. Hale had arrived after church to share in a holiday nuncheon with the family. He was so touchingly overjoyed to be included in their holiday celebration that Mrs. Thornton’s normally cold reserve had softened and they had chatted about numerous topics of mutual interest during the meal.

Mr. Hale had obviously missed his family and felt their absence heavily. When Mrs. Thornton had asked him if he had heard how his wife and daughter were, he had given a small start and patted his breast. “I received a letter just yesterday from Margaret,” he had announced with a smile. Reaching into his breast pocket, he had extracted a small missive and unfolded it.

Adjusting his spectacles on his nose, he had scanned the lines and remarked, “She writes that she hears much saber rattling about the impending war and ‘damned impertinent Yankees telling us what to do.’ They are spoiling for a fight, she writes, and hopes they are more swagger than intent.” He had looked up with a worried smile, always afraid of giving offense.

“Is that all she writes,” Mr. Thornton had asked in a constrained voice. He longed to read the letter himself, to run his fingers over her handwriting and feel some connection to her.

“No, no,” Mr. Hale had assured him and, rustling through the pages, had thrust the letter toward his host. “She has a message for you, Mr. Thornton, in the final paragraph,” he had proclaimed, smiling with pleasure that his daughter had remembered his friend.

“To John?” Mrs. Thornton glanced between the two men in surprise and suspicion. “Whatever could she find to write to you?”

Ignoring his mother, his heart beat erratically in his breast as he all but snatched the proffered missive and avidly scanned the page before him until his eyes lit upon the final paragraphs:

Please tell Mr. Thornton how sorry I am that I am unable to dance with him on Christmas Day. Believe me, I would much rather be there celebrating in New England than at yet another endless ball which it seems my lot to attend.

 

I love and miss you, and wish you a happy Christmas.

 

Yours, Margaret

Shifting against the parlor wall, he remembered how his heart had lifted at the simple words. To think that such a woman preferred the harsh north to the soft south—and thought to apologize for the misunderstanding that was more his fault than hers.

He wondered how she fared this evening, hundreds of miles away. She probably had dozens of young men lined up to dance with her. He remembered Mr. Hale speaking of a family friend—a Henry Lennox—who showed decided partiality. He imagined her waltzing in this young man’s arms, in the gaiety and glitter of a beautiful plantation house, and felt cast down in despair. 

“Mr. Thornton, may I present my daughter to you? Anne, this is Mr. John Thornton.”

He glanced over to see his banker, Mr. Latimer, standing expectantly, a fair young woman at his side. Automatically, he extended his hand to her. She placed hers in his and gracefully curtseyed. As she rose, she kept her hand in his clasp and smiled up at him with great complaisance, as if certain he would find her beauty captivating. He felt the role of host settle upon his shoulders, heavy as an iron mantle, reminding him of what he owed his guests.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Latimer?” he asked suavely, ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest. Not awaiting her reply, he threaded their way through the crowd onto the dance floor to join the eager throng awaiting the start of the music.