laughed, and she smiled, admittedly pleased it was her doing. “Ready for round two?” he asked. “If you can manage it? Once more and then it’s all over.”

“An ending to which I heartily look forward,” Jane replied.

The music reached its cue. The strings swelled, the melody quickened, and the sad tune rose to a crescendo. They danced through the corridor of people for the second time.

Fred pulled her gently down the line and their bodies moved in unison. Jane knew the steps now and danced well. But something else occurred that would stay with her for a long time. Every time she moved her arm, his was there to catch it. Every time she turned, he was waiting to hold her again. One body began the sentence; the other finished it. She could feel his breath on her neck, the arch of his collarbone through his shirt. Jane had never danced like this with anyone. It was infuriating and confusing.

How had this obnoxious person moved her about so, commanded her body? He held her tenderly; it maddened her. Despite his claims to the contrary, he was, in fact, a fine dancer, moving smoothly and in time. Jane would breathe this detail to no one, especially him. They reached the end of the line once more and the rest of the dancers cheered and applauded. She smiled in spite of herself. She had not noticed before, but she was panting with the exertion. Fred took a bow as a joke and Jane joined him. He did not look at her, but his warm hand rested on the small of her back.

Cheryl nodded to them. “I’ve seen worse, I suppose,” she said in a begrudging tone.

Jane loved to dance. When she was nineteen, she had never wanted for a partner. She had flung her bashful companions around the room in boisterous joy, pointing at silly hats and ugly sashes and flirting outrageously. People attributed her outspoken manner to the charm of youth. But as she arrived in her twenties and other girls were marrying around her, the offers to dance thinned. By twenty-five, she felt lucky to be asked once in ten dances. She stood by the wall and inhaled as men approached, then felt crushed when they asked her younger neighbor. Sometimes men asked her to dance two dances, then moved off after the first when, she supposed, they realized her age. She let them go with a smile, keen not to show they had hurt her, watching the couples spin around the assembly room, and resolving to temper her conduct. She observed the women who were asked to dance every dance, with their bosoms exposed and their mouths shut, and tried to replicate their behavior.

Cassandra, who had a sweeter temperament, gently counseled her to smile more, to encourage an approach. But it was no good. The more she tried to be quiet, the more of a scowl she wore. By twenty-eight, she sat in the corner and joked of being an old maid. She’d leave in a grim state, muttering about the disappointing society, while her heart ached.

Jane glanced at Fred. He seemed to stare at her with an expression Jane did not recognize. Jane was used to men looking at her in a number of ways. Confusion, for certain, when she spoke of a philosopher she enjoyed. Pity, of course, when she spoke of her love of walking alone in the woods. Her favorite was probably derision, when they moved close enough to see the lines formed around her eyes, realized her age, added it to her poverty, and found themselves offended to be in her company, wasting their time. But this man looked at her in none of those ways. Jane could not place it at all. It was almost as though . . . yes, like he was trying not to look at her. Like he gave too much of himself away.

Jane felt her own face doing a peculiar thing also. It was trying to move itself closer to his, as though trying to hear what the infuriating man said or scrutinize his facial expression, though he spoke clearly and his visage sat in full view. Perhaps she was eager to hear what he said, to be close to him so she could offer a quick rebuttal to any inane thoughts he produced. Yes, that was it. She commanded her face to stop, but the order rang hollow in the muscles of her neck, which elected to continue the mission of their own volition.

Chapter Eleven

Thank you, darlings. That’s a wrap on rehearsal,” Cheryl called to the group. The dancers clapped and cheered and embraced each other.

Fred shrugged at Jane. “Look at that, you survived,” he said.

“I suppose I should thank you for your help,” she said, but then paused and said no more.

Fred placed his hands in the pockets of his coat. “A bunch of these guys go to that café up on May Street after rehearsal. I’m not an actor, but I guess I could slap on a beret and sit in a smoky corner. We could sip lattes and talk about ‘craft’?” He coughed and looked away.

It was Jane’s turn to laugh. Jane did not understand beret or latte, but she understood she was being invited somewhere. “I’m sorry, do you request my company in this café?” she asked.

He stared at her, then shook his head violently. “Of course not,” he replied. “I’m just saying that’s where I’ll be. If you’re going there as well, I’ll probably run into you.”

“I thought I was disagreeable, and a terrible dancer,” she said.

“You are,” he replied.

“Well, then?” Jane said, maddened. “I think you are indeed inviting me somewhere, sir,” she challenged him.

“Forget I said anything,” he said.

“I’ll go,” Jane said quickly without thinking. “I have nowhere better to be,” she added. She crossed her arms.

He looked at her. “Fine. We should probably go together, unless you know the way?” he said in a tone of such unenthusiasm, Jane

Вы читаете Jane in Love
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату