The Major's Daughter (21 page)

“But you escaped unscathed?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

He held his arm out for her and she linked her arm through his. It was a proud moment. He escorted her to the short reception line where his mother and the other committee members greeted the partygoers. Music filled the room behind them. A quick glance told Henry that the decoration committee had met its usual high standard. The ballroom had been transformed into a bright confection of balloons and paper streamers. The back doors opened onto the river and he felt a brisk breeze coming through, keeping the heat from building. The breeze moved the balloons and streamers, giving the night a sense of motion and restlessness that he found appealing. Fall had entered the air at night.

He listened as Collie greeted everyone, introduced herself when appropriate, or stood and allowed him to introduce her. She was a marvel of social ease and confidence. He noted how the organizing committee of the Woodcutters' Ball regarded her. She was a bright white bird in a room full of dun sparrows.

“Now the music has started . . . ,” his mother said at the end of the reception line, her eyes scanning the crowd to make sure everything had begun correctly. “Make yourself at home. Enjoy . . . Henry, see that she dances and meets everyone. Oh, you know what to do. You both do. And keep an eye out for Amos, will you? He's not very good at these sorts of evenings.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“We put you at the young people's table, but of course that's just for a sense of order. I don't mean young people's table as though you are children . . . just as young people who are out for fun. You can roam anywhere you like. Make sure you show Collie the outside deck. . . . Well, you can't miss it, of course. Now, go ahead. I'm making too much of things as usual. Your father is around here somewhere, probably with a cigar and a drink he doesn't need. . . .”

“I'm in good hands, I'm sure,” Collie said, then took Henry's arm and walked beside him toward the dance floor.

“Would you like to dance first, or perhaps some refreshment . . . ?” Henry asked.

“A drink, please.”

“You look absolutely showstopping. I hope you know that.”

“Showstopping, is it? That's a new one.”

“I shouldn't be so complimentary,” he said. “You're probably too accustomed to it. You should be tortured a bit more.”

“No one ever said I was showstopping, I assure you.”

“Here we go,” he said as they arrived at the bar. “How does a highball sound? Two whiskey and sodas, please. Tall glasses.”

The bartender, a short, eager fellow named Tad, Henry knew, said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Heights,” and began shuffling glasses and ice together. Henry signed the bill when it came to him. He took the two drinks from the bartender's hands and passed one to Collie.

“To the woodcutters,” Collie said.

“Yes, to the woodcutters.”

“In the past, you know,” he said, clinking her glass and sipping, “the Woodcutters' Ball was a sort of lumberjack competition. A bunch of jacks would meet out in the woods with a barrel of questionable liquor and they would have a ball. People still tell stories about the earliest ones. They actually danced as they do right here.”

“Sounds quaintly primitive.”

“Oh, it was, I suppose. Lots of fighting, of course, and dares and foolhardy challenges. The Frenchmen were the worst, according to legend. One fellow had a moose he could ride and he would spend the early part of the night drinking on moose-back. Someone shot the moose later in the season for stew meat. It caused a terrific riff.”

“You like the romance of it, don't you?” she asked.

He took more of the highball and nodded. He wanted to say more, to have her interest firmly fixed on him, but soon a party of young people swooped down on them. He knew them all; they were Berliners, local children from local families. He introduced Collie around the half circle they formed against the bar. There was Jack Pillton and Annie Scott, Bill Biels and Sarah Clement, and Edward Gates and Betsy Rice. The girls all wore gowns, but none fit them as well as Collie's gown fit her. The boys spoke with the high, nervous tone in their voices that sometimes fell on men around attractive women. Henry knew Collie had been the subject of much speculation already that evening.

“Did you find a pin?” Collie asked Betsy Rice. “You looked to be in a panic.”

“This strap broke,” Betsy said, pointing to her left dress strap, and Henry remarked how easily Collie entered their world. “My kingdom for a safety pin.”

“It was a madhouse in there, wasn't it?” Sarah Clement said, her voice slightly drunk already. “They should set up more mirrors if they intend to have this kind of crowd. Henry, take a note for your momsy. Tell her the young set demands more mirrors.”

“Demand,” Bill Biels said, “make sure you frame it as a demand.”

“Who needs another drink?” Edward Gates asked, his voice lush with liquor. “Oh, Gunga Din, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. See here. Eight of your best highballs, young Tad. Though I've beaten you and flayed you . . . does flayed mean to remove one's skin? Is a simple whipping a flaying as well?”

“I don't think whippings are ever simple,” Sarah said. “Not simple at all. But a flaying is the taking off of skin. I'm fairly certain about that.”

“How dreadful,” Betsy said. “Who started us on this topic? It must have been Bill. Bill's been odd all evening.”

“Cut her off!” Jack said, then he made a moan like a steam whistle. It went on too long, Henry thought, but there was no stopping it. Afterward, Jack said, “Throw the girl a life preserver.”

The drinks arrived. Henry caught Collie's eye. She smiled. She was a good sport, he realized. She had entered into the fun, and he admired her comfort in diving into a new situation. Some women might have stood back, or remained superior, but not her. He suspected the others found her a good egg, too.

She took the second highball and hoisted it when the others toasted.

“To the jack with the biggest balls,” Bill Biels said.

“To the biggest balls,” the others repeated.

It was an old profane toast, one that could be said with impunity on this single night. Even his mother would raise a glass to it, Henry knew.

He watched as Collie blushed but drank. She smiled when she lowered her glass. She was exactly, exactly the kind of woman he wanted in his life.

 • • • 

It felt wrong to be merry, but Collie couldn't help herself. The drinks had fueled some of it, she knew, but the rest, the majority portion of it, had to do with Henry and the lively atmosphere of the Woodcutters' Ball. If she were honest with herself, she realized, she would have admitted that she had expected to have a horrid time. The ball followed too closely on Marie's death; and she was with Henry, not August, and that, too, should have mitigated against much merriment. It felt like a small betrayal. But all of that counted in, it was a lively evening. Part of it, she suspected, was the season. The night had turned crisp and bright, and someone had the good sense to jam the door open so that they could pass freely out onto the wide verandah overlooking the river. Stiff breezes came in throughout the early part of the evening, seeming to stir them as leaves might mix in the corner of a building. The party convened as much outdoors as inside.

The crowd also—this was a revelation—had a sense of humor about itself. Yes, they were dressed in finery, and yes, the band played demure numbers, but behind it all rested the legacy of the true Woodcutters' Ball. It was meant to be an outdoor festival, the demarcation of summer's ending, and something riotous and good-humored remained in the fabric of the event. Even the toast, slightly scurrilous, worked to make everyone less stuffy. Although she had never been to it, the evening reminded her of stories about Mardi Gras, some crazed evening where the sole intent was to let loose and to bury any worries about the future. That's how it felt, anyway.

And Henry . . . yes, he had been a perfect gentleman and escort. He was fun and well suited to his social environment. It was obvious, she mused as she stood on the verandah waiting for him to arrive with what she had made him swear was the final drink of the evening, that he was well liked by his friends and family. What she had taken in him previously as a sign of timidity and a failing of confidence was really, she sensed now, a basic shyness mixed with the desire to cede to others the center stage. His talent, in fact, relied on his standing back and surrendering the social battles to others. It was easy to picture him as he would be in later life: diffident, patient, perhaps wise in an unusual way. In short, he had a sense of himself, a very proportionate one, and she had reassessed him throughout the evening, clarifying her image of him against the backdrop of the ball.

How strange life could be, she thought. She turned and looked out at the river. It reflected the moonlight and seemed to be in a rush to arrive somewhere. Now and then she heard logs knocking together. They had been corralled in what Henry called a boom pier. Or an alligator pier, she wasn't quite sure. It was fun to hear them talk about wood and logs as if they discussed the habits of acquaintances. Underneath it all, she imagined, there was significant land and wealth, although they never made much of it. She liked that about Henry and about his family and friends. They wore their riches lightly.

“Here we are,” Henry said, reappearing with two more drinks in his hands. “I hope I wasn't too long. Poor Tad is overrun and the two spare bartenders they've signed on aren't up to the challenge, I'm afraid.”

“No, you're just in time. I was beginning to think you'd gone off.”

“I wouldn't abandon you to this pack of wolves,” he said, raising his glass and nodding over it. “They may look safe, but they're loggers when all is said and done.”

“They've been nothing but polite.”

“Oh, it's early still, I promise. We haven't had the ritual fistfight out in the parking lot. That's part of the festivities, but it requires the proper alcohol levels. It's a delicate balance.”

Collie looked at him closely.

“I wanted to thank you for inviting me, Henry,” she said. “I've had a lovely evening. I was hesitant, as you know . . . with Marie, and all of that. But I'm glad now that I came. I'm glad I got to know you away from the usual run of things.”

“Well, I had no choice but to try to make up for our first date.”

“Yes, that was a spectacular something, certainly. But even without that in the balance, I've had a wonderful night. I needed to get away more than I realized. Camp life can be wearing.”

“I would imagine so.”

“So thank you. I appreciate your patience with me.”

“I'm fond of you, Collie. I intend to marry you. I told you that.”

She studied him. He'd had a few drinks, unquestionably, but she did not think his statement came from that. He seemed to mean what he was saying. It was the second time he promised to marry her, and she looked at him curiously, trying to gauge him.

“You should be careful,” she said, “because someday someone will believe you.”

“I'm hoping you will believe me.”

“I think you've had too many drinks, Henry.”

“I'm on the level about this, Collie. I picked you out as soon as I saw you. I've always thought you were the right woman for me and everything since then has confirmed it. I can't be plainer about it. I'll ask you to marry me someday. Not right now, because I know you aren't prepared to answer. But I will ask, and then we'll see. I think we would have a good life together. I think you think so, too.”

She turned and looked out at the river, her mind racing. He had no right to speak this way so soon in their friendship, and yet he didn't seem to do it for shock value or to appear daring and fascinating. He struck her as sincere, which was extraordinary. He was either hopelessly naïve, or wonderfully candid.

“Don't worry,” he said, “I won't mention it again. Not for a time, anyway. I'm a patient man. You don't know that about me yet, but I am. And I usually get what I set out to get.”

“Am I something to get?”

“I don't mean it like that. You know I don't.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Unless you hate me, Collie, I hope you'll let me see you often. I won't press, I promise. I want to see where we might go together. Will you give me permission to do that much at least?”

Her mind flashed quickly to August. It flickered to Estelle, and to Marie, and to poor Amy sitting in her office, downcast and heartbroken.

“You can ask, and I can answer,” she said, because she did not know what else to say at the moment.

“That's a small victory, then,” he said, raising his glass. “Now I hope you'll dance with me, and we'll check to see what fistfights are brewing.”

“Yes, let's,” she said, and led him back toward the ballroom.

But there were no fistfights. Henry took her glass and set it beside his on their table. The table had long since been abandoned; the night was exploding outward, each table like the site of a detonation. People either danced or stood outside, taking the air. Some, she was certain, had already left. She had seen her father depart an hour ago.

She danced with Henry. He was not a particularly good dancer, but neither was she, she knew. Still, he was game and he led her around the floor to the tune of “Smoke on the Water” by Russ Morgan.

She did not feel the electricity she felt when she was in August's presence. She could not delude herself about that. She couldn't say what it was about August, but he thrilled her, touched her in a way that Henry, despite his good nature, could not replicate. It struck her as perverse that the feelings between men and women worked in such a way. How much easier it would have been, she reflected, if she had felt passionate about Henry. She could have a comfortable life with him. It was absurd to hold out for August; August might be sent away at any moment, and what, in the end, had they meant to each other so far? A few haphazard meetings, that was all. She had visited him in the infirmary, and she had seen him running through the rain to leave a bouquet for her, but how did that calculate against the solid warmth of Henry's companionship? She wished, even while in Henry's arms, that she might discuss everything with Estelle. Estelle would bring light to the subject. She always did.