Page 45 of Lady Like

The only thing more humiliating than staying at the dance, Emily decides, would be to leave—nothing confirms or inflates a rumor like running from it.

So she forces herself to stand, alone with her back to the wall for a reel, a quadrille, another reel, a sixdrille, and a three-couple set, forgoing her usual demure glances and instead casting withering looks at anyone who dares glance her way.

At long last, the final song before the intermission is finally called—a waltz.

And, as all around her gentlemen offer their hands to ladies, kissing their knuckles and guiding them onto the floor with their skirts looped over their elegantly cocked hands, Emily can bear it no longer.

She had hoped to make it to the interval and slip out discreetly, but her nose burns with the effort it is taking not to cry.

She tucks her unmarked dance card into her bodice, pushes an errant pin back into her hair, and turns for the door.

But just as she does, she feels a soft touch on her arm as, behind her, someone says, “May I have this dance?”

She turns, expecting a leering stranger or a boy on a dare from his friends— ask the murderess to dance!

But there, at her shoulder, is Harry.

Harry, in one of the fine suits Emily had run her fingers along in the wardrobe in her room, the brocade as black as onyx, gold buttons shimmering in the candlelight.

She must have bound her breasts, for the starched white shirt lies almost flat across her chest, and her neckcloth has been pressed into slicing folds.

She’s unwigged, and her cropped hair curls softly around her ears and at the back of her neck, despite the effort she’s gone to slick it down with pomade.

Emily’s mouth trembles. She’s sure her pulse can be seen in her neck. She tries to take a breath and finds she cannot draw one deep enough. “What are you doing here?”

“Asking you to dance,” Harry replies. “If it’s not too bold.”

All around them, couples positioning themselves on the dance floor look their way curiously.

Several of the men who had gaped at her earlier crane their necks to see who is offering their hand to Miss Emily Sergeant.

The women peer at Harry from behind their hands.

Emily sees one of them whisper to her friend Who is that?

Though she cannot tell if it is said in admiration or derision.

Emily had expected that if she ever saw Harry again, she’d be angry.

She’d want to slap her and scream at her, her heart so full of hatred for the way Harry had deceived her that any love there would be forced out of her heart like tenants evicted from an overcrowded house.

There was simply no room to contain both.

So Emily is shocked to find that more than anything, she wants to rest her head on Harry’s shoulder. She wants to take Harry by the lapels of her coat and run her fingers through the short hair at the back of her neck. She wants to touch Harry’s lips with the tips of her fingers.

Emily wants to hate Harry. She wants to make a scene, shout at her and tell her to leave.

She wants to ask her to stay. She wants to dance with her, wants to be held by those strong arms like she was when Harry carried her through the rain.

She wants no one else in this room to matter.

She’s somehow certain they won’t, if she can just dance one waltz with Harry.

Emily wants so much.

“If you do not want—” Harry says just as Emily says, “Let us dance.”

As they take their positions among the other couples, Harry places a hand on the small of Emily’s back, and Emily places hers on Harry’s shoulder. Harry moves to tuck Emily’s other hand behind her own back, but winces sharply.

“Are you all right?” Emily asks, alarmed.

Harry holds her chin to her chest for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is tight. “You’ll have to forgive me. My shoulder isn’t yet recovered fully. May I, instead?” Her hand brushes Emily’s waist.

“Of course.”

Harry does not keep to the edges of the dance floor, as Emily might have chosen to. She carries them forward into the middle of the crowd, her footsteps assured and her head high, turned just slightly from Emily’s so their cheeks are parallel to each other.

“Did you tell anyone?” Emily says quietly.

Harry turns her face to Emily’s, and Emily feels the brush of Harry’s nose against her temple. “No. I swear.”

Emily reaches up and puts a hand lightly upon Harry’s lips. “Do not swear. I believe you.”

“You were right,” Harry says softly.

“What about?”

“I had designs on Rochester,” Harry says.

“That’s why I sent those men after you at the Majorbanks’s.

And when Collin introduced us, it crossed my mind that I could use my influence to put Rochester off you.

It was cruel, and I’m sorry. When I realized I wanted to do no such thing, I did not tell you the truth for fear that…

well, that what would happen at the race would transpire.

You would discover my deceit, and never want to speak to me again. ”

“Yet here we are,” Emily says. “Speaking.”

“The remarkable nature of that is not lost upon me.” Harry’s head cants. “I’m not marrying Rochester. My initial plan to do so was made in haste and desperation. I thought I wanted someone with whom I could be wed and yet remain on my own.”

“You deserve that,” Emily says. “You should not have to marry someone who would ask you to compromise yourself.”

“I know,” Harry replies. “But I see now that they are not diametrically opposed.”

“So why not marry Rochester?” Emily asks. “What changed?”

“I met you.” Harry ducks her face, chin to her shoulder, then says, “I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I ask for it anyway. Emily Sergeant, please forgive me for the harm I caused you. I regret most profoundly anything I did to make you feel less than what you are: the most desirable woman in London. I hope you find someone deserving of your magnificence. And if that’s Rochester, I’ll throw rice at your wedding.

I’ll bring the flowers. I’ll bake the cake.

Whatever makes you happy, Miss Sergeant. That’s all I want.”

Emily’s heart feels as though it’s swelling in her chest. Like a letter lost in the post for years, her resentment has returned to her hardly legible.

Harry steps back, and Emily realizes the song has ended. She wants to shout at the quartet to please add another verse, for this cannot possibly be their last moments together.

Harry bends over Emily’s hand, still cupped in hers, and kisses her knuckles. “You look beautiful tonight,” she says. “As lovely in white as you ever were in yellow.”

Emily looks at Harry, in her brocade coat, her expression grave, though she gives Emily one final wink before she steps back. Emily is afraid her heart may fly from her chest for the way it is stretching, arms out, toward Harry. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Sergeant.”

“No,” Emily whispers, and Harry pauses in the act of turning for the exit.

“Pardon?”

She has reached the limits of her strength. She cannot conjure even the memory of language.

“Miss Sergeant,” Harry says, but before she can say another word, Emily turns and flees the ballroom.