There was only one answer. At Diplock Hall, there was only one finishing dance permitted. With one voice we all cried out: “Sir Roger de Coverley.”
What other country dance could be better to seal an evening of bonhomie? Who could not but remain in good humour with his neighbours after dizzily whirling round with nimble feet and swinging his partner with joyous zest? Who could not but be merry as coats and skirts flew and ankles peeped?
It is thought by some that the dance is named after the jovial and eccentric “Sir Roger de Coverley” who, over sixty years ago, was created in Joseph Addison’s essays for The Spectator magazine. History prefers to complicate matters, however. In the essays, “Sir Roger” claimed it was his grandfather invented the dance, but the “Roger of Coverley” existed in the dance manuals long before “Sir Roger” willy-nilly became confused with the story, although its figures and steps continually change over the years.
To my mind, it is still the finest country dance of them all, and it is said even the court of King George enjoys it. When my dear wife Bertha was alive I loved to swing her round, then pass round each lady in the whirligig (as Bertha used to call it to my amusement), as she did the same down the gentlemen’s line. How I enjoyed taking her hand to turn in the centre each time, until the last couple in the set was reached and we paused to lead the promenade back to our new positions.
I had thought Bertha would be my partner for life until she was gently taken from me, and now I live on without her, working in my parish, in my garden, and on my glebe land, which my man Barnabas manages, and cared for by Dorcas, my housekeeper, who comforts me by day, and often also when darkness falls.
Our sets were six couples in length, and to my horror I saw the squire, no doubt even further in his cups, escorting Constance Dacres to join the head of one set. To my amazement, William Dacres was next to the squire in the gentlemen’s line, opposite his partner Mrs. Meek, our doctor’s wife. Next to his father was Thomas Dacres, not to be parted from his Evelina. Thus the family seemed reunited. Then came Christopher Collett, no doubt bitterly regretting having been drawn into Constance’s spider’s web, opposite his wife; then came Gerald Farrow, no doubt shivering in his shoes at the prospect of revelations about his past indiscretion. His wife Emily faced him, but next to her at the end of the set on the ladies’ side, I saw to my consternation that the Widow Paxton stood awaiting a partner. Much against my will, since I had no wish to meet Constance Dacres in a merry dance, I realised I should in courtesy take my place as the widow’s partner.
At least the music would, I trusted, concentrate the dancers’ minds on their feet and not on Mrs. Dacres’s threats, since it is a fast-moving dance in which wits and limbs must move quickly together. Then I remembered that only some of the dancers at any one time would be moving quickly, and that for the other couples there would be time to brood on Mrs. Dacres, while waiting for her and the squire to perform the whirligig down the line towards them.
There would be no trouble, I tried to comfort myself. The squire would have his position as our magistrate to consider, as I had my parson’s office. Mr. Primrose began the well-known tune, which set all our feet a-tapping, and for a while I forgot my worries.
“Tallyho,” roared Squire Holby as he honoured his partner — which must have been hard for him today — at the top of our set. As the unfortunate gentleman at the bottom of the set, I advanced to take the hand of Constance Dacres in the middle of the set; it felt for a moment like a snake curling in my palm as we circled round. Then I was back in my place, only to have to advance thus thrice more, until I was released by the advent of the whirligig figure. As she laughed and twinkled in merriment at me, she seemed a different woman from the one who had opposed me in the dining room, and yet each time I escaped the witch to retreat to my own position a great relief flooded over me.
I watched her with her partner the squire, turning with their right hands in the middle of the set, then she passed to the gentlemen’s side for the whirligig and he to the ladies’. First in line was her husband:
“Come, my dear,” I heard her say. “Is this not a splendid dance?”
William Dacres did not reply, but stolidly turned with her in her wake after she passed on his left and then danced to the centre to meet the squire again. Then to young Thomas: I saw him shrink away as she quietly spoke into his ear while circling round him. Back to the centre again to take the squire’s right hand. Impossible now to look at that innocent-looking face and believe she had wickedness in her heart.
“Christopher,” she cried gaily as she circled round him, “how long a while since I have seen thee last.”
His terrified expression, as he turned and for a moment was facing me, told me all I wished to know. Back to the centre for Constance Dacres. Then the next gentleman in the whirligig:
“Gerald,” she said loudly, “have you not missed me?”
I did not see his face as he turned, close as he was to me, but I could imagine it. Back to the centre and the squire’s right hand. She would be with me in less time than it takes to think these words, let alone record them. I drew on all my resolve. I was a man of God, His cross would protect me against the deeds of the devil. And here she was, those eyes staring expressionless into mine.
“Parson Pennywick,” she began, but did not continue, to my relief. She seemed still as we circled together, a ghost in flight as she went to take the squire’s hand for the last spin of the whirligig. They half-turned, leaving her to dance on past the Widow Paxton to take her place in the line next to her, as the squire came to stand by me. It was time for them to begin the promenade.
It did not happen. Instead:
“Oh,” the Widow Paxton screamed, as Mrs. Dacres staggered, clutching at the widow’s skirts; but then her hands fell away, as she collapsed on the grass.
“She swoons,” I cried, but there was no movement, no sound from anyone, and the fiddler played on.
Then Dr. Meek came hurrying from the other set, and the music came to a screeching halt, as it was observed that we had all stopped dancing. I was already at Mrs. Dacres’s side when Dr. Meek arrived. Why? I think I knew even then that this was no mere swoon.
“She has no need of your services, Caleb,” Dr. Meek said, after a quick examination, but even so I knelt by the body for a few words with the One who alone knows the secrets of the most evil of our hearts.
The doctor had spoken quietly, but even so William Dacres heard. He was pale with shock, but I heard no outburst of lamentations either from him or those now gathered around.
I was aware that Squire Holby was staring at me enigmatically. “Get her inside, Caleb,” he said. “We must send our guests away.”
“Not for the moment, sir,” Dr. Meek said.
Squire Holby is our magistrate, but poaching and charge-orders on men unwilling to wed the mothers of the children they have sired are the worst of the crimes usually tried before him. Even so, he grasped the doctor’s meaning, and quickly ushered the guests into supper.
“An apoplexy,” he cried dismissively. I longed to believe it.
Warm food provides a licence to believe that nothing can be amiss with life, and I had a brief wistful desire to join the diners. Then I apologised to our Lord for such sinful thoughts while a woman lay dead for an unknown reason, awaiting His and my attention. As I looked down at that still-lovely face, now pale in death, I lamented the abuse she had heaped upon God’s gifts. We carried her inside to the powder room, and left Dr. Meek for a while to decide how she had died. The coroner must be informed if there were no clear reason for it.