He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [77]
Miss Nordstrom had already begun the encore. I heard Katherine say, “Now, Cyrus, don’t try that with me!”
You may well believe, Reader, that the anxiety of a mother had not been entirely assuaged. I started toward Ramses with some confused notion of interfering, but he caught my eye and shook his head.
They were, unfortunately, the center of attention. She was so tiny and he was so tall, they made a comical and rather touching picture; her head was tilted back and her round, freckled face shone with childish laughter as he guided her steps. It was his right arm that circled her waist and turned her, but a prickle of anxiety ran through me as I saw how hard she clung to his other hand. The dance neared its end; the corners of his mouth tightened as he caught her up and swung her round, not once but several times. After he had set her on her feet, she caught hold of his sleeve. “That was wonderful,” she gasped. “Do it again!”
“You must give the Professor a turn,” said Nefret, drawing the child away from Ramses. “He waltzes beautifully.”
“Yes, quite,” said Emerson. “A waltz, if you please, Miss—er—Nordstrom.”
I went to Ramses, who was leaning against the back of the sofa. “Come upstairs,” I said in a low voice.
“Just hold my arm up,” Ramses said, adding, with a breath of laughter, “There aren’t many women of whom I could ask that. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
He had put his other arm round my waist and since there was no reasonable alternative I supported his hand and followed his steps.
“Is it bleeding?”
“It’s all right, I tell you.”
“Did you have to do that?”
“I think so. Don’t you agree?”
“Curse it,” I muttered.
“It is not necessary for you to lead, Mother.”
I put an end to the dancing after that. Nefret took Miss Nordstrom’s place at the piano and we finished the evening, as we always did, with the dear familiar carols. Mr. Pinckney insisted on turning pages for Nefret, leaning so close his breath stirred the loosened hair that curled round her cheek. Mrs. Fortescue was the surprise of the evening. Her rich contralto voice had obviously been trained, and I observed she had unconsciously taken on the pose of a concert singer, hands folded lightly at her waist, shoulders back. But when I praised her singing and asked if she would give us a solo she shook her head in feigned modesty.
“I had a few lessons in my youth,” she murmured. “But I would much rather join in with the rest of you—so like family, so appropriate to the season.”
Few lessons indeed, I thought, though of course I did not press her. She had sung professionally at some time. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, nor any reason why that fact should cast doubt on her story. All the same, I decided I wanted to know more about Mrs. Fortescue.
I have never been more relieved to see a party end. Katherine and Cyrus always stayed after the rest, and for once I begrudged these dear old friends their time with us. At least we were all able to sit down and put our feet up and admit we were tired. Emerson had his coat off before the door had closed on the last of the other guests. Tie and waistcoat soon followed, and so did the top button of his shirt—clean off, for Emerson’s forceful manner of removing his clothing has a devastating effect on buttons. I picked this one up from the floor.
“Whiskey, my dear?” Emerson inquired.
“I believe I will, now that you mention it.” I lowered myself into an armchair.
Emerson and I and Ramses were the only ones who indulged. Cyrus declared he and the others would finish the champagne, of which there was not a great deal left. It had certainly had an interesting effect. A good many tongues had been loosened; several people had forgotten, if only briefly, to keep their masks in place.
“What a wonderful party,” Anna murmured. The champagne had affected her as well; she looked almost pretty, the severity of her features softened by a smile.
“I am glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said somewhat absently.
“Oh, I did. It was a bittersweet pleasure in some ways,