Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“Then it is high time you learned.”

“Perhaps, but this does not seem the proper place,” said I. “And besides, the musicians have stopped playing. Perhaps the ball is ended.”

“It is no such thing. The musicians are merely resting. Now — listen! — now comes an announcement.”

Indeed it was so. The leader of the musicians had stepped forward, his violin tucked under his arm. He waited a moment for some semblance of quiet, which remarkably enough he was granted. Then did he call forth to all and sundry: “We shall now play a sampling of country dances.” At that point, his announcement was interrupted by applause and cheers, which swelled to a considerable commotion as he shouted out: “Hunt the Squirrel will be followed by Moll Patley.” Then did he turn back to rejoin his fellows, and the dance floor began to fill with noisy young people, partners who congregated into larger groups to perform the lively dances.

“Come along, Jeremy!”

Clarissa grasped my hand and tugged me along, showing surprising strength. In truth, I did not resist greatly, for though I had said truly enough that I had not learned to dance, I meant that I knew nothing of performing such formal steps as those of the minuet. Country dances I had watched from the time I was a very young child; as partner to my mother, I had even played often at Hunt the Squirrel, which I would then call “the chasing dance.” And so we formed up into a square with the other couples, and Clarissa instructed me simply to keep my eye upon them and do what they did. Yet when the music began, and I heard that bouncing rhythm once again, all came back to me quite effortlessly, and I was soon hopping about to the music as one well practiced. When it came my turn to chase Clarissa round the square, I did so with a skipping shuffle I had learned from my mother, which had been quite admired at the time.

Clarissa, all flushed and happy, called to me as the dance came to an end: “A fine sort you are, Jeremy. You lied! ”

“I did what? ”

“Why, you lied, just as plain as can be. You dance well — for a boy.”

“Ah, well, I do not count this as dancing. I learned it as a child as a kind of game or sport.”

“Just as I did,” said she.

We had lined up again for Moll Patley, and were just taking our bows and curtsies when, looking beyond Clarissa, I spied Lady Fielding hurrying toward us, her face set in an angry expression. Why should she be so distressed, so upset? She had never before objected to dancing; it was she, after all, who had wished to visit the Friday ball. And while she may have been a bit annoyed to find, upon her and Sir John’s return, that we were dancing, surely the extent of her displeasure was not such that she would grasp Clarissa by the shoulder and drag her bodily from the floor, as she was doing, and command me to follow. I saw from my partner’s face that she was as confused as I.

Only minutes later, our little company, so hastily organized by Lady Fielding, was moving at quick-march down King Street in the general direction of the Bear Tavern. Clarissa and I led the way, since we knew it better than Lady Fielding and Sir John, who knew it not at all. We tramped along no more than a few paces ahead, unwilling for a while to say a word lest we draw the wrath of our mistress upon our heads. What was most puzzling, however, was the fact that in spite of Lady Fielding’s anger (perhaps even because of it), Sir John seemed much amused. The truth was that he had hardly ceased chuckling to himself since we had left the ball.

There was a sudden jerk at my sleeve. As was intended, it brought my attention to Clarissa, who, by soundless lip movements and a bit of miming, managed to communicate a question: “Is Lady Fielding angry at you and me?” I gave that some serious thought and at last shook my head, indicating the negative.

Then, shrugging, palms up, in an exaggerated manner, she signaled her own confusion. Thus we could but plunge onward, listening to Lady Fielding clucking in disapproval and to Sir Johns barely suppressed sounds of merriment.

“Jack, I do wish you would stop that.”

“Stop what, my dear?”

These were the first words we had heard spoken between them since we had departed the ball.

“You know quite well what I refer to — that continual sniggering.”

“Kate, I do not snigger. I have never sniggered. I am, however, known to laugh from time to time when things strike me as funny.”

“That struck you as funny? That indecent display? That scene from the barnyard? At times your sense of humor does truly astonish me.”

“Not at all, my dear. What you saw did not amuse me. It was simply that you had seen what you did so soon after our discussion of the level of conduct of the nobility. You must admit that it is no more edifying to see Lord Limerick relieving himself against the garden wall than to see the same thing done in Bedford Street by any common drunkard.”

Lady Fielding sighed audibly and deeply. “I suppose I must,” said she. “Though I believe I would not have been quite so shocked had he not tipped his hat and wished us a good evening.”

“Do you think he may simply have thus attempted to save the situation?”

“Certainly not! I contemn him as brazen and rude! You — ” At that point she broke off and exclaimed: “Goodness, Jack, what have we done?”

“What is it, Kate?”

“Why, the children — I had forgotten about them completely!” And then to us: “Clarissa! Jeremy! Have you two been listening?”

“To what, m’lady?” asked Clarissa. “We have been discussing literary questions.”

That might have satisfied her, but then Clarissa began giggling and quite ruined matters for us.

Though Lady Fielding’s dismaying experience in the garden may have brought us back earlier than intended to the Bear Tavern, it nevertheless returned us at a favorable hour for a proper nights sleep prior to our trip to London. And a good thing that was, too, for after we had been on the road in the post coach but a few hours, each one of us would have gladly admitted the superiority of Lord Mansfield’s slightly gentler coach and four in which we had journeyed to Bath. Though we had thought the latter impossibly brutal to our backsides, we found the former far worse. The only relief we experienced from the constant jostling and bumping about were stops at inns along the way, that we might answer the call of nature, or, contrariwise, have a sip or a snack. When at last it came time to dine and rest for the night, none but Sir John was able to sleep, save for a few hours before dawn; the elderly couple with whom we shared the coach swore they had literally passed the entire night without once drifting off. By the time we arrived in London, a full thirty-eight hours had passed since our departure from Bath. This, I was told, was about the average length of time for the journey.

We arrived at the onset of evening and made direct for Number 4 Bow Street. Annie Oakum, our blessed cook, had somehow foreseen our arrival and prepared a glorious meal of roast mutton, with which she greeted us as we climbed the stairs and entered the kitchen. It was a grand welcome — and that Lady Fielding told her over and over again. For her part, Annie, quite overcome, declared quite tearfully that she had missed us, each and every one, more than she could ever tell. Then, without so much as unpacking, we did sit down and eat the feast that Annie put before us; and to my mind, it was better by far than any dinner eaten in Bath. When we had done, we sat silent at table, and warmed by the meal, we reflected upon how thankful we were to be home, and how long it would be before we would wish to journey forth again.