A Girl Called Samson (85)

“It went well, sir. You should be very proud,” I commented, revived by the meal and his company. “Everything was perfect. The colors, the sounds, the weather. All of it was wonderful.”

“Yes. It was.”

“And you even danced,” I said, giving him a small grin.

“Mrs. Knox would not take no for an answer, and she couldn’t find you,” he answered, wry. “It is easy to see why she and Henry suit. They both have dogged wills.”

“You did very well. And yes. Mrs. Knox is frightening. I would dearly love to be her friend someday.”

The general laughed out loud.

“I’ve never cared much for dancing. Elizabeth adored it so I did it for her, and she was never wanting for partners. Do you know how to dance, Samson?”

“Of course I do, though I have never been to a ball like that one.”

He brushed off his hands and rose to his feet. “Come then. Up you go. I’ve made you eat. Now I will make you dance.”

“Sir? We have no music,” I said, but I scrambled up, thrilled by the prospect.

My hair was loose, but I did not bother tying it back. Decorum at such a late hour, when we were alone behind a closed door, seemed unnecessary. And the general was as rumpled as I. The balmy air and the hours of dancing in the hall had turned his normal waves into curls that fell across his forehead and escaped his messy tail. Our feet were bare, and looking down at them, I saw our difference was marked. My feet were narrow and my ankles slim. His feet were large and sprinkled with hair. I curled my toes and averted my eyes, but not before he took in the contrast as well.

“You should always wear your shoes, Samson. Even your feet give you away.”

“But you already know who I am.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well . . . give me your hand.”

“I cannot think of a single melody,” I said, placing my palm against his. My hands were big, but his were huge. “The Thomases only sang the hymns.”

“Ah. But I know a hymn that will work.” He began to hum “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation” in a waltzing, three-count tempo and extended his hand with a small bow.

I hummed along with him as we found our rhythm and matched our steps.

“You are trying to lead, Samson. Stop that. You must be the woman or we will collide.”

“I am being the woman. You went the wrong way. Is it because you are left-handed?” I argued.

“You are not doing the woman’s part. You are doing the same thing as I am. I’m going to tread on you.”

Footsteps moved down the hallway, and we froze, fearing we’d been too loud. A door opened and closed, and the footsteps receded.

“Let’s try that again,” he demanded.

We clasped hands and stepped left-two-three and right-two-three, left-two-three and right-two-three, all while whisper singing “Praise to the Lord” and chortling, trying to keep from honking too loudly.

“You are still doing the man’s part,” he hissed, laughing.

“I was afraid I might have to give one of the officer’s wives a turn around the room, and practiced a little. Now I’m confused and can’t remember which is which.”

“We should really choose a different number. How about ‘Yankee Doodle’? It’s catchy,” he suggested.

We immediately launched into a much more vigorous version of the same steps, up-tempo and energetic, singing softly, and I managed to perform the correct steps, right up to the end, where I forgot to curtsy and we bowed at the same time and knocked heads.

“Ouch! Dammit.” The general laughed, clutching his brow. He rubbed my head with one palm as he massaged his own.

“Sorry, Samson. That must have hurt.”

I had only meant to tease him, to pull a prank as friends do, but when I moaned and staggered, planning to fall on my bedroll like the collision had truly done me damage, his arms shot out, and he eased me down to the floor, searching my head with his fingers and patting my cheeks while supporting me against his chest.

“Deborah. Curse it all. My mother said I had the biggest, hardest head of any child she’d ever seen. She said it was a wonder that she survived my birth. If I’d have been the eldest, my sisters would never have been born. It’s a great stone club, is what it is,” he worried, holding me in his arms and staring down at me as though he expected my eyes to flutter into a dead faint at any moment.

I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. “I’m fine, John. I was just teasing you.”

He sat back on his heels, but he didn’t release me. “You were just . . . teasing me,” he restated flatly.

“Yes. But now I’m quite cozy. Do you think you could rock me to sleep . . . perhaps a lullaby too? You have a beautiful voice.” I grinned up at him, needing desperately to laugh a little longer, but his eyes had narrowed. And for a moment I thought something had shifted, or perhaps I only mirrored what I felt.

“You called me John,” he muttered.

I had. Was he angry? “Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I forgot myself for a moment.”

Neither of us were smiling anymore. But he didn’t let me go.

“It is late,” he said.

“It is.”

He released me abruptly and stood. He retreated to the pitcher and poured himself a glass of water before refilling the cup and bringing it to me.