Fire Along the Sky
Page 16
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“At least Simon Ballentyne isn't too busy talking to dance,” Lily said, startling Jennet out of her thoughts.
Simon Ballentyne was indeed dancing, his plain, good-natured face flush with ale and music and the young woman he held by the hands—one of the Hench girls, according to Hannah. Jennet would have known Simon for a Ballentyne no matter where she came across him in the world: he had his father's dark eyes, black hair that grew as thick as a pelt on his head and chest, and the stolid Ballentyne temperament. He was only one of the men who had followed Luke to Canada to make his fortune, and he had done well for himself.
As Simon circled past them in the course of the dance his gaze met Jennet's and then Lily's. The expression that passed over his face like a flash of lightning was not lost on either of them.
Lily asked, “Is Simon Ballentyne angry at you, cousin?”
“Ooch, ne.” Jennet wrapped her arms around herself. “The Ballentyne men may be fierce of temper and stubborn as mules when it comes to business, but every last one of them is as meek as a lamb with the lasses. It wasn't me he was googling at, cousin, but you.”
At that Lily laughed out loud. “You must be mistaken.”
Jennet studied the younger woman's face to see if she really had no understanding of the looks that Simon Ballentyne was sending her way.
“Simon's had an eye on you since he came to Paradise last year with your brother,” Jennet said. “And why should he not? A prettier lass would be hard to find, Lily, or a livelier one.”
Lily flushed, in anger and something else, something that bordered on pleasure. “You must be imagining it.”
“I am not. Luke told me. Have you taken no note, then?”
Lily spread her hands out over her skirt and then made fists of them. “No, I hadn't noticed. And he hasn't said anything, which is just as well.”
“Then you've no interest in poor Simon.” Jennet did her best to strike a light and teasing tone, but Lily did not hear that, or could not.
She said, “My only interest is going to Manhattan. But my parents keep reminding me that the city was held by the British for most of the last war. As if that mattered to me.”
Jennet had little to say to this; after all, she herself had traveled much farther in time of war and it would be the worst kind of hypocrisy to preach caution to her cousin.
“You want to study painting, your sister tells me.”
Lily cast her a relieved glance, as if she had expected Jennet to lecture her on the impossibility of her situation. “My uncle Spencer has already arranged for me to study with a Mr. Clarke—a landscape painter—and also with Monsieur Petit who is a master of color. When I have learned enough I will go to Europe with my aunt and uncle, to study the great artists.” She stopped herself and composed her face. “Now it is your turn to tell me to stop dreaming.”
At that Jennet laughed out loud. “You don't know me very well, cousin, if you think you'll hear such a thing from me.”
Lily pressed her mouth together and her brow drew down so that for one moment Jennet was amazed at how much she looked like Elizabeth.
“They think I'm a child crying for the moon who will be distracted with a bit of maple sugar.” Lily's gaze followed Simon as he moved through the dance. “But they are wrong. I won't be distracted.”
“Of course you must study, as talented as you are,” Jennet said. “But you do realize that there are teachers in places other than New-York City? There might even be someone suitable in Johnstown, and that is not so far away.”
Lily let out a sharp laugh. “By my mother's reckoning it is as far as the moon.”
Across the dancing circle a young woman had marched up to the men gathered around the Bonners and begun to lecture them with her hands on her hips. They could not hear what she was saying over the fiddles, but from the embarrassed grins of the men it had something to do with their very bad manners.
“I see there's more than one lass in Paradise who kens what she wants,” said Jennet.
“That's Lydia Ratz,” Lily explained. “She's fond of dancing. And other things. Your Simon Ballentyne should dance with Lydia, she'll . . . distract him.”
All the other single women had turned their attention in the same direction. Now that they had the opportunity they studied Luke cautiously, in the way of those who are taught to guard their good names and virtue if not their hearts. At Carryck, in Montreal, here in Paradise, and everywhere in between Jennet had seen it again and again. Young and old they fixed on Luke in a crowd, as they would fix on Daniel, as they had once fixed on Nathaniel. Granny Iona had told her the stories.
Two young girls no more than ten came to stand just at the edge of the dancing. One was dark of complexion and hair, while the other was freckled and had long plaits that flashed like polished copper in the firelight.
“The little one is Callie Wilde,” Lily said, following Jennet's gaze. “The redheaded girl is Martha Kuick.” She put her mouth directly to Jennet's ear. “I expect Hannah must have written to you about the Kuicks.”
Jennet knew just enough of the girl's story to make her want to hear the rest, but before she could think how to ask, Elizabeth came to fetch her away to meet still more people: Nicholas Wilde, who owned apple orchards, and with him his housekeeper, a tiny woman as wizened and dark as a dried blackberry, and his hired man, who was, Jennet was told, though her eyes said such a thing was hardly possible, the housekeeper's son. He was as large as she was small, with a quick smile and even white teeth and hands like great leather mitts, in which he held his hat when he bowed his head and said a few words of greeting.
Simon Ballentyne was indeed dancing, his plain, good-natured face flush with ale and music and the young woman he held by the hands—one of the Hench girls, according to Hannah. Jennet would have known Simon for a Ballentyne no matter where she came across him in the world: he had his father's dark eyes, black hair that grew as thick as a pelt on his head and chest, and the stolid Ballentyne temperament. He was only one of the men who had followed Luke to Canada to make his fortune, and he had done well for himself.
As Simon circled past them in the course of the dance his gaze met Jennet's and then Lily's. The expression that passed over his face like a flash of lightning was not lost on either of them.
Lily asked, “Is Simon Ballentyne angry at you, cousin?”
“Ooch, ne.” Jennet wrapped her arms around herself. “The Ballentyne men may be fierce of temper and stubborn as mules when it comes to business, but every last one of them is as meek as a lamb with the lasses. It wasn't me he was googling at, cousin, but you.”
At that Lily laughed out loud. “You must be mistaken.”
Jennet studied the younger woman's face to see if she really had no understanding of the looks that Simon Ballentyne was sending her way.
“Simon's had an eye on you since he came to Paradise last year with your brother,” Jennet said. “And why should he not? A prettier lass would be hard to find, Lily, or a livelier one.”
Lily flushed, in anger and something else, something that bordered on pleasure. “You must be imagining it.”
“I am not. Luke told me. Have you taken no note, then?”
Lily spread her hands out over her skirt and then made fists of them. “No, I hadn't noticed. And he hasn't said anything, which is just as well.”
“Then you've no interest in poor Simon.” Jennet did her best to strike a light and teasing tone, but Lily did not hear that, or could not.
She said, “My only interest is going to Manhattan. But my parents keep reminding me that the city was held by the British for most of the last war. As if that mattered to me.”
Jennet had little to say to this; after all, she herself had traveled much farther in time of war and it would be the worst kind of hypocrisy to preach caution to her cousin.
“You want to study painting, your sister tells me.”
Lily cast her a relieved glance, as if she had expected Jennet to lecture her on the impossibility of her situation. “My uncle Spencer has already arranged for me to study with a Mr. Clarke—a landscape painter—and also with Monsieur Petit who is a master of color. When I have learned enough I will go to Europe with my aunt and uncle, to study the great artists.” She stopped herself and composed her face. “Now it is your turn to tell me to stop dreaming.”
At that Jennet laughed out loud. “You don't know me very well, cousin, if you think you'll hear such a thing from me.”
Lily pressed her mouth together and her brow drew down so that for one moment Jennet was amazed at how much she looked like Elizabeth.
“They think I'm a child crying for the moon who will be distracted with a bit of maple sugar.” Lily's gaze followed Simon as he moved through the dance. “But they are wrong. I won't be distracted.”
“Of course you must study, as talented as you are,” Jennet said. “But you do realize that there are teachers in places other than New-York City? There might even be someone suitable in Johnstown, and that is not so far away.”
Lily let out a sharp laugh. “By my mother's reckoning it is as far as the moon.”
Across the dancing circle a young woman had marched up to the men gathered around the Bonners and begun to lecture them with her hands on her hips. They could not hear what she was saying over the fiddles, but from the embarrassed grins of the men it had something to do with their very bad manners.
“I see there's more than one lass in Paradise who kens what she wants,” said Jennet.
“That's Lydia Ratz,” Lily explained. “She's fond of dancing. And other things. Your Simon Ballentyne should dance with Lydia, she'll . . . distract him.”
All the other single women had turned their attention in the same direction. Now that they had the opportunity they studied Luke cautiously, in the way of those who are taught to guard their good names and virtue if not their hearts. At Carryck, in Montreal, here in Paradise, and everywhere in between Jennet had seen it again and again. Young and old they fixed on Luke in a crowd, as they would fix on Daniel, as they had once fixed on Nathaniel. Granny Iona had told her the stories.
Two young girls no more than ten came to stand just at the edge of the dancing. One was dark of complexion and hair, while the other was freckled and had long plaits that flashed like polished copper in the firelight.
“The little one is Callie Wilde,” Lily said, following Jennet's gaze. “The redheaded girl is Martha Kuick.” She put her mouth directly to Jennet's ear. “I expect Hannah must have written to you about the Kuicks.”
Jennet knew just enough of the girl's story to make her want to hear the rest, but before she could think how to ask, Elizabeth came to fetch her away to meet still more people: Nicholas Wilde, who owned apple orchards, and with him his housekeeper, a tiny woman as wizened and dark as a dried blackberry, and his hired man, who was, Jennet was told, though her eyes said such a thing was hardly possible, the housekeeper's son. He was as large as she was small, with a quick smile and even white teeth and hands like great leather mitts, in which he held his hat when he bowed his head and said a few words of greeting.
