Andrew Ravanel smiled at her.
Rosemary wouldn't meet his eye. "And you, Jamie? How is it with you?”
Jamie Fisher shrugged. "I am not warlike. Oh, I'll fight if I must, but war will be so darned uncomfortable." His ironic smile dropped from his lips. "What will war do to our horses? What do horses care about politics?”
Juliet Ravanel tapped Jamie's elbow with her fan. Miss Ravanel was much in demand as a regimental flag embroiderer, and her new prominence had mellowed her. Her taffeta ball gown was perfectly cut and sewed but, alas, purple was just not Juliet's color. "Mrs. Haynes." She mockcurtsied.
"Isn't this a gala? Is your card filled?”
"What dances John didn't take, elderly Haynes cousins have. Balding men with wooden teeth and execrable breath are eager to squire their captivating kinswoman.”
Miss Ravanel examined her card, "Jamie, I have two waltzes and the promenade open.”
"Do you promise not to lead?”
Juliet's smile could have frozen salt water.
Provided his partner was careful of her toes during intricate figures, John Haynes could manage a quadrille. Rosemary smiled fixedly during the deux temps. "Sorry, dear," her husband whispered. "Mercy. What a clodhopper I am." John's hand on her back was flat as a meat platter, and his hand at her waist was thick and possessive. Bowing afterward, John said earnestly, "Rosemary, you are the most beautiful woman in the hall. I am the happiest husband in South Carolina.”
Rosemary fought the urge to reclaim her hand. "Only South Carolina?”
she managed to say.
"In the world. On every blessed continent of the blessed world." His plump, warm lips kissed her hand.
Another deux temps, a promenade. As they were forming for the quadrille, there was a stir at the door and a manager hurried up to them. John bent his head to the man's whisper.
John Haynes turned to his wife. "Dearest, I must go to the wharf.
Someone has landed munitions that may have been intended for the Yankees.
Give others my dances. Please don't let me spoil your evening.”
Rosemary promised.
Ten minutes after John Haynes left, Andrew Ravanel was at Rosemary's side. He smelled strongly of bay rum and slightly of perspiration.
His bow was lavish. "Rosemary ...”
"Captain Ravanel, are we speaking?”
Andrew's smile was wistful. "You have every right to be angry. I am the worst scoundrel in the Low Country.”
"The last time we were on familiar terms, sir, you compromised me. I believe I owe you my matrimonial status.”
"Are you the worse off? Surely John Haynes is an ... adequate husband.”
Rosemary narrowed her eyes. "Take care, sir.”
Andrew's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "If I have given fresh offense ...”
"I haven't forgiven you for your earlier offense," Rosemary said.
"I haven't forgiven myself! I lie awake wondering if my mad kiss was worth the reckoning. But Rosemary, wasn't that a transporting moment? God! I will never forget how ... Rosemary, I despise irony. Don't you hate it, too? How ironic that my declaration of love should drive us apart — each into another's arms.”
"Declaration of love? Captain, am I an idiot? Do you think I might mistake what you did for a declaration of love?”
Andrew put a hand over his heart. "When I am mortally wounded, on some distant battlefield, my last thoughts will be of that kiss. Would you let me go to war without a waltz?”
"In that extremis, sir, one's last thoughts are of one's beloved. As you pass to your eternal reward, it will be Charlotte's face you will recall, not mine. Unless, of course, a more recent conquest pushes Charlotte aside.”
Andrew flushed, then laughed so infectiously nearby couples smiled.
Andrew laid his hand upon his heart. "Rosemary, I cannot promise fidelity, but I guarantee your exclusive possession of my last thoughts.”
"There won't be a war anyway.”
"Dear Rosemary, of course there'll be a war. Our uniforms are pressed, swords honed, and pistols primed. Rosemary, the orchestra is tuning. I haven't forgotten what a marvelous dancer you are.”
Dancing with Andrew Ravanel was a dangerous, brilliant conversation.
Andrew anticipated her nuances and enhanced them; his rhythms reflected Rosemary's and commented upon them.
The music — one of Mr. Strauss's waltzes in three-quarter time — ended too soon. As other dancers were honoring their partners, Rosemary fluttered her fan.
"Another?”
Andrew Ravanel danced all John Haynes's dances. During the first intermission, Grandmother Fisher took Rosemary aside. "Charlotte has left in tears! Rosemary, think what you are doing!”
But Rosemary couldn't think about it. She had denied herself too long.
At midnight, after the quadrille, couples promenaded into the dining room for the cold collation. Men stepped out onto the piazza to smoke and the scent of tobacco wafted into the too-hot high-ceilinged dining room.
Men and women Rosemary had known all her life wouldn't meet her eye.
She might have been invisible.
"As well be hung for a sheep ..." Andrew murmured in her ear, and then called, "Henry Kershaw, you rogue. Will you take supper with us?”
Us? Us? Rosemary hadn't thought to become an us. "No," she blurted, jerking her arm from Andrew Ravanel's.
Gentlemen moved aside when Rosemary fled onto the piazza. Across the street, in the circle of gaslight outside Garrity's saloon, drunken militiamen were singing.
Damn, damn, damn!
Constance Fisher joined her, pulling her shawl close. "Child, where is your cloak?”
Rosemary shook her head.
"I must say, my dear ...”
Tears flooded Rosemary's cheeks, "Oh, Grandmother Fisher, I am a fool, such a fool. Whatever have I done?”
The old woman relaxed slightly. "Child, you have been extremely unwise.”
"What must John think? What will Charlotte?”
"Were she I..." The older woman warned.
"Oh, Grandmother Fisher! What shall I do?" Rosemary grasped the balustrade to steady herself.
Grandmother Fisher gripped her shoulders. "You will do what Charleston ladies do. Presented with mulatto children who resemble their husbands like peas in a pod; awakened by their husbands' drunken footfalls approaching their bed you will do what Charleston ladies have always done: you will fix a smile on your face and pretend that God's in His heavens and nothing — absolutely nothing — is wrong in His world.”
For the rest of that evening, Rosemary sat with Constance Fisher.
When Andrew Ravanel sought to approach, his wife's grandmother's glare repelled him.
Andrew whirled by with the youngest, loveliest maiden at the ball. The girl never took her adoring eyes off the chevalier.
He is a magnet, Rosemary thought. What does a magnet think of consequences? Very late in the evening, there was a flurry at the doorway. John Haynes bustled toward his wife, beaming with pleasure. He shrugged off Juliet Ravanel's importuning hand with, "Another time, Juliet, please.”
The dark-haired gentleman who'd followed John Haynes into Hibernian Hall gave his cloak to a footman. Horace, the orchestra leader, lost the beat, and the musicians faltered. Gradually, dancers stopped, turned, stared.
Rosemary gasped.
A red carnation adorned Rhett Butler's wide velvet lapels. His shirtfront was resplendent with ruffles; his studs were gold nuggets the size of peas.
He held a wide-brimmed planter's hat at his side. Her brother's hands were so much bigger than Rosemary remembered.
"Evening, Cap'n Butler," Horace said. "We ain't seen you in such a spell.”
"Evening, Horace. And you — you must be Cassius, the banjo man? You're known, son. They've heard about your picking as far away as New Orleans.”