Free Circling the Sun by Paula McLain Page A

sixteen.”
    “You were never sixteen.”
    He was flattering me, but I didn’t mind much. I’d had three glasses of champagne by then, and everything was beginning to seem wonderful—Jock’s dark jacket under my hand, the band in an alcove opposite the bar. The tuba was a golden blur. The horn player seemed to be winking at me. And then there were the other partnered girls sailing by us in silk dresses, gardenias tucked like stars into their hair.
    “Where did all these girls come from? I’ve never seen half of them.”
    He glanced around. “You outshine them.”
    Out on the farm, there’d been no occasion to flirt. I hadn’t learned how to try to draw a man in, so I simply said what I thought, even though it stamped me as insecure. “Emma says I don’t paint well.”
    “All that rouge and face powder has to come off at some point. Maybe it’s better you don’t.” We danced for half a minute in silence, and then he said, “These town girls all come from the same box of sweets, anyway. I think I’ll marry you instead.”
    “What?” I breathed, caught off guard.
    He grinned, his teeth neat and shiny and square. “You
are
wearing a white dress.”
    “Oh.” I leaned back in his arms and felt my head go woozy.
    —
    Sometime later I went to sit near Dos at one of the cloth-draped tables. Her chin was propped up on one of her hands. A gin fizz foamed in the other. “He’s lovely,” she said.
    “You dance with him then. He makes me nervous.”
    “He hasn’t looked at me twice.”
    “How do you know?”
    She laughed at me. “Really, Beryl. You’re so thick.”
    “Why
wouldn’t
I be?” I glared at her. “It’s all so stupid anyway. Half the fellows have sweat pouring off them, and the other half look right over my shoulder as if I’m not there. Well, at least the ones who’re tall enough.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, softening. “I was only teasing. You’ll learn.”
    I made a face at her and pulled at the neck of my dress. “Want a smoke?”
    “You go. It might be my only chance for a little male attention.”
    “You look grand.”
    She smiled. “I’ll look better with you outside.”
    —
    On the street, it was dark in the way only Africa can be. I took a deep breath, tasting dust and eucalyptus, and moved past the smeary lights of the veranda. In the small park across the road, smooth clay had been spread like a dusting of confectioners’ sugar, and a dotted line of dwarf gum trees newly planted for effect. This was Nairobi trying to civilize itself, but a greater emptiness stretched out beyond it, ready to swallow every last stitch of all of us. I loved that about Africa and hoped it would never change. Strolling, I felt the dark tug at me, and a pleasant itch to be out of my dress, out of my skin even.
    “You look like Diana,” an English voice said, startling me.
    A man stood in the street behind me in a well-fitting evening jacket and trousers, both white as the moon. “I’m sorry?”
    “Diana the huntress,” he clarified. “From the Romans.” He was drunk, I realized, but still pleasant for all that. A fat bottle of wine sloshed against his leg, and when he smiled I saw he had a wonderful face, at least in the dark. “I’m Finch Hatton…or maybe I’m Virbius.”
    “More Romans?”
    “That’s right.” He looked at me more closely, tipping his head. He was taller than I was, when so very few men were. “You look as if you’ve been to a party.”
    “So do you. This one’s for me.” I pointed my chin in the direction of the hotel.
    “Your wedding party?”
    I laughed. “My coming out.”
    “Good, then. Never marry. Dianas don’t, as a rule.”
    He stepped a little nearer, and I could better see his face under the rim of his dark bowler. His eyes were large and heavily lidded. His cheekbones were strong, and his nose was sharp and fine. “Do you feel ready for society, then?” he asked.
    “I’m not sure. Can anyone tell you when you’re grown