Kate Kingsbury - Death Is in the Air

After all, what had she really lost? One couldn’t lose that which one never had, and there were many thousands of women who had lost so much more. She had absolutely no right to go moping about feeling sorry for herself. Violet would be furious with her if she had any idea of her ridiculous and childish behavior.

Thus fortified, albeit with a heavy heart, Elizabeth squared her shoulders, shoved open the doors, and marched back into the thundering fray.

She noticed this time that the room had become sharply divided. On the one side, the Americans sat at the tables, either in groups or alone with a girl, while the rest of them jiggled around on the dance floor.

On the opposite side of the room, the British soldiers leaned against the wall, watching the dancing with bored expressions, or stood in groups muttering amongst each other.

It was those groups that worried Elizabeth the most. Even from that distance she could tell that the soldiers were not at all happy. A couple of them were making angry gestures and shaking their heads, while others scowled at the dancers on the floor.

It wasn’t hard to understand why they were upset. With the exception of two or three women, all of whom looked old enough to be mothers of the uniformed men, the rest of the female assembly were either clinging to the arms of the Americans or flying over their backs.

It was time, Elizabeth decided, to get the two sides together before they were at each other’s throats.

She headed for the stage, where Wally Carbunkle was busily sorting out records. “I think it’s time for a break,” she told him as she clambered up beside him. “See if you can find Priscilla. Tell her I need her to play the piano for a short while. I think I saw her over by the bar.”

“I’ll get her, your ladyship.” Wally, looking very spiffy in a white shirt and red waistcoat, trotted off to find Priscilla.

Elizabeth stepped up to the microphone and looked down at the upturned faces of the dancers, most of whom looked disgruntled at being interrupted in their war dances. Undaunted, Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I think it’s time we got everyone on the floor for a round of country dancing,” she announced into the round, black mouth of the microphone.

Her words were met with a chorus of groans from the women, while the Americans looked at each other in confusion. A babble of voices arose from the floor while the women explained the art of English country dancing.

Sensing the lack of enthusiasm, Elizabeth tried again. “How about a Lambeth Walk?”

More mutters of explanation. The Americans merely looked horrified.

“Hands, Knees and Bumps a Daisy?”

This time the explanations were accompanied by half-hearted demonstrations from the abashed-looking women. Howls of laughter erupted from the men on the floor.

Elizabeth had to admit they did look rather ridiculous, slapping hands and bumping behinds. She made one last appeal. “All right, we’ll play a slow song and make it a lady’s invitation dance. Marlene Barnett, you start off by picking your partner, then when the music ceases, you each find another partner, and so on until everyone is dancing.”

This announcement was met with a rumbling of grudging approval. Smelling victory, Elizabeth urgently beckoned to Wally Carbunkle, who was still hunting for Priscilla. He came back at a bumbling run and, panting for breath, climbed onto the stage.

“Don’t you worry, Lady Elizabeth, I’ll take care of it,” he assured her.

She waited until the first strains of Frank Sinatra’s clear, mellow voice filled the hall then thankfully left the stage. She’d done her best to integrate the crowd. Now she could only hope for the best.

Watching the dancers from the edge of the floor, she couldn’t stop the ache growing in her heart. Couples danced cheek to cheek, shuffling around no more than an inch at a time. Amazing, she thought. She’d been fascinated by the way the Americans danced much livelier and faster than their British counterparts, and now they were dancing closer and much more slowly than she was used to seeing.

In fact, in view of the fact they were so closely entwined with their partners, the Americans’ idea of a slow dance was quite sensual. How marvelous it would have been to have danced with Earl Monroe that way.

Even as she struggled to repress the thought, her attention was caught by a small disruption by the main doors. A group of American officers had entered, and Elizabeth was intrigued to see Polly Barnett rush up to one of them and throw her arms around his neck.

Then her heart seemed to stop when another of the officers broke away from the group and began walking unsteadily toward her. He was limping, she noticed, and he wore a piece of sticking plaster on his forehead. He looked incredibly weary… and unbelievably handsome.

He paused in front of her and held out his hand. “Sorry I’m late. I believe this is our dance.”

Speechless and embarrassingly close to tears, Elizabeth smiled up into the tired face of Major Earl Monroe.

Suddenly the chattering and laughter in the ballroom seemed to ebb away as Elizabeth took Earl’s hand, leaving only the soothing voice of Frank Sinatra to entice her onto the dance floor.

“You’re limping,” she said as he led her into the midst of the smooching couples.

“We had a little problem on the way back this morning.”

“Won’t it hurt you to dance?”

“I’ll manage. Just don’t ask me to jitterbug.”

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of breaking my neck for anyone.” She glanced over to the group at the door. All of them appeared to have bandages of some kind, and one of them leaned on a cane. “What happened?”

“We caught some flak. Crippled the plane, but we made it back close enough to land in a field. Took us a while to hitch a ride back to base.”

Filled with concern, she looked up at him. His mouth was smiling, but the bleakness in his eyes frightened her. “That’s a little problem?”

“We made it down in one piece. Better than ditching in the ocean.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered coming down here tonight. You must feel awful.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Her heart seemed to turn over. “I’m so glad you made it back.” Such simple words that couldn’t convey the gratitude she felt that he had been spared. This time.

“So am I.” His gaze flicked over her. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you.” She had been right. Dancing this close with Earl Monroe was an interesting-no, captivating-experience. She felt quite light-headed.

She saw the other couples nuzzling each other and wanted so much to touch his cheek with hers. She had to remind herself sternly that he belonged to another woman. In an effort to reinforce that, she said deliberately, “Your wife will be very relieved to know you are safe.”

His face was expressionless when he answered her. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do you have children?”

“Two. Boy and a girl.”

“They must all miss you very much. It’s hard for children to be without their father.”

“Yeah, well, they’re almost grown up now. Brad’s sixteen, and Marcia’s a year older.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You must have been very young when you had them.”

“Right out of high school.” He inclined his head in the direction of the stage. “Good music. Sinatra’s a favorite of mine.”

“Mine, too.” Aware that he’d deliberately changed the subject, she told him about the rest of Bessie’s collection of records. Obviously it was painful for him to talk about his family. He must miss them very much , she thought, and chided herself for the deep pang of envy she felt.