Lilac Spring. Ruth Axtell Morren
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know it was invented in Vienna? I needn’t summarize the prince’s—or was he a count?—well, anyway, I needn’t go on with his flattering speech. The introduction alone took a good half minute. It was a few more minutes before I realized he was asking me to dance. His accent was so heavy, his circumlocution so flowery, it was quite some time before I realized all he wanted was a waltz.”
Cherish laughed to hide her nervousness. She felt she hadn’t stopped for breath in the past minute, terrified lest Silas disengage himself from her. Now as she looked into his smiling face, she wished she could have an inkling of what he was feeling. Was it anything remotely akin to the way her heart was skittering about in her chest?
She gazed into his gray eyes, her aunt’s words coming back to her. What was going on behind them? They regarded her with that same fond amusement they always had. Was there never to be anything more?
“Come on.” She tugged at his shoulder and took one of his hands from her waist into her own. “I’ll show you the Viennese waltz.”
Then he did react, as she had already begun taking the first step. “I’m not much good at waltzing.”
“It’s simple. I’m planning another party—did I tell you?—and I intend to have dancing this time. But you must lead. One, two, three…one, two, three…” She continued looking into his eyes as she counted. “It’s fatal to look down at your feet. You’re sure to trip then. It’s just a box step, as simple as counting one, two, three. This way—one, then two here, and then one long step, three.” They turned together.
“Yes, you’re doing it.” She began humming a Strauss waltz. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Imagine a hundred chandeliers, sparkling upon the ladies’ ball gowns, and you in a black jacket and starched white shirt with stiff points and white or black tie.” She continued humming, wanting this dance to go on forever.
She laughed when he tripped on a tussock of grass. “You can’t stop, but must find your place once again, or someone might step on my train. The ballroom is packed with dozens of couples….”
Cherish kept up a steady flow of talk, as if by sheer will she could make Silas fall in love with her, feel what she was feeling for him, sense the enchantment of this moment under the cloudless sky in the midst of a field of bluets more glorious than the most radiant Viennese ballroom.
At the noonday dinner Tom Winslow turned to Phoebe when she sat down across the table from him. “Where is Cherish?”
“Out on a picnic with Silas,” she answered him, reaching for a dish of potatoes and taking a helping.
“Out on a picnic?”
“That’s what I said. They went for a sail and a picnic. Now, would you care to serve yourself a slice or two of the corned beef and pass me the platter?”
“What? Oh, yes.” He stabbed the red slices and put them on his plate, then passed the dish to his sister. They finished serving their plates and bowed their heads to say grace. After taking his first bite, Tom chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I like her hanging around with Silas so much. First down at the boat shop and now picnicking together.”
“Silas is a good boy.”
“She’s tagged after him since she was a little girl, always defending him whenever she’s so much as thought I wasn’t treating him right. Now—” here he gave a grunt of incredulous laughter “—she wants me to think of Silas as my successor.”
“You could do a lot worse,” she answered shortly.
Their cutlery clattered against the china as they ate in silence for a while.
“Still, now that Cherish is home, I want her to start meeting some of the men of her own class. Take that young Townsend. I like that fellow. A real gentleman.”
“The question is, does she like him?” Phoebe asked pointedly, prying open her biscuit with the tip of her knife, the steam escaping in a sheer vapor.
That night Cherish knelt by her bed and prayed. Lord, You know how much I’ve always loved Silas. Only You know. Only You know how long I’ve waited for him. I’ve done everything that was expected of me.
Oh, please, Father, make Silas love me back. Let him love me as I love him. I want him so badly. I feel I shall burst with love for him.
Chapter Four
After the Sunday-morning church service, the congregation filed through the entryway, greeting the minister.
“Well, if it isn’t little Cherish Winslow!” Pastor McDuffie took her hand in a hearty handshake. “What a fashionable lady she has become. What do you say, Carrie?” He turned to his wife.
Mrs. McDuffie turned to Cherish with a warm smile. “Welcome back, Cherish. Please forgive us for missing your homecoming. We had to be away that day. We are so happy to have you back in our midst.”
“Thank you. No one is gladder than I am,” she answered.
“Now that you’re back, can we look forward to seeing you with us on Tuesday nights for choir practice? Carrie can certainly use another good singing voice.”
“I would love to come.” She turned to Silas. “You’ll join me, won’t you? We could walk over and back together.”
He fingered his tie. “I’m not much of a singer.”
“Nonsense,” McDuffie contradicted. “You have a fine baritone. I could hear you from the pulpit.”
Cherish smiled at the color creeping up his cheeks. “I hope it didn’t hurt your ears,” he said.
McDuffie laughed. “Au contraire. I was heartened to hear such a good, strong male voice. Just what we need in our choir.” He leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “We have a surplus of little old ladies, dear souls, whose voices are becoming a mite quavery. We need some new blood.” He gave them both a last firm handshake. “It’s settled, then, come out Tuesday evenings at seven. Good to have you back, Cherish.”
Silas walked home from church with the Winslows as usual for Sunday dinner. Though he had deliberately slowed his steps to avoid walking with Cherish, he found her at his side.
She was a vision of loveliness. In fact, she had been every day he’d seen her since her return. He was beginning to realize he was looking forward to her appearance each day. Today she wore a yellow dress, with flounces and ruches up and down its skirts. A wide yellow sash, tied low on her hips, swayed in the breeze. The tight sleeves of the gown came down to her elbows and her hands were covered with dainty white gloves.
Silas wondered whether it was perhaps because he’d been around men too long, down on the shipyard, that one prettily dressed girl could stir his senses so.
Cherish was chatting away merrily with old Jacob, the Winslows’ handyman and gardener. “I look forward to hearing you fiddling away at the party.”
Silas realized none of the girls of Haven’s End could hold a candle to Cherish. Was it the city polish? Was it that every detail in her appearance was pleasing to the eye? Did women achieve that deliberately, or did it come about naturally?
Cherish’s deep brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in ringlets beneath a little straw bonnet trimmed in yellow ribbons and bows. He remembered her hair caught up in a simple wide ribbon the day they had danced in the meadow, how it had swung around as they’d played at waltzing in a ballroom. She’d been just as beautiful then in her simple frock and hairstyle.
He smiled inwardly at the image. Cherish pretending he and she had been in some elegant Viennese ballroom. Nothing could be sillier. He glanced down at his hands. They were marred by scars of cuts old and new from carpenter’s tools and burns from hot tar, and they felt as rough as the sandpaper he used to make the boats he worked on as smooth as silk.
How did they compare to Prince Leopold’s? Like sandpaper to silk beat a refrain in