Free Black Eagle by Gen Bailey Page A

agreement, but though she tried to find her tongue to say the words, her mouth simply refused to do her mind’s bidding.
    Watching her, John Rathburn grunted in revulsion. Marisa was at once shamed. But still she couldn’t speak.
    Waving his hand at her, Rathburn said, “Ah, ye be too young. If not in age, then in disposition. ’Tis a waste of time, ye are. Now go! Leave me at once!”
    Marisa, not needing to be told twice, jumped to the floor and, ignoring Rathburn’s warning of propriety, ran out the door and back to Sarah’s waiting arms. She had cried and cried, until at last she had drifted to sleep.
    Though her steps in time to the music had not faltered, Marisa was shaken. She had truly forgotten the incident. In essence, at the time, so embarrassed had she been over her seeming inadequacy, she had not even had the courage to relay the details of the incident to Sarah. Marisa had instead cried until there had been no more tears left to be shed. Even then she had hiccupped through most the night.
    By the next morning, however, the entire occurrence had seemed to wash away, to trouble her no more. Or so it had appeared. However, it looked as if the incident had in fact receded into the dark recesses of her memory, where it had remained buried and unheeded until now.
    But why was she recalling it now?
    As Marisa looked up, her gaze fastened onto the silhouette of a man who stood amongst the guests, there toward the back wall of the ballroom. Yet he might have been directly in front of her for all that her attention clung to him.
    It was he, the Mohawk Indian. The one who had so impressed her with his oratory and admiration. Her stomach somersaulted.
    Step forward, step back, turn, swing up and exchange places, step up, step back, promenade. It was as though her feet knew the dance, for her mind was far away from the minuet’s requirements.
    Her handsome young partner coughed, bringing her attention back to him. The cough was soon followed by another in kind, then a bout of hacking. Putting a hand to his throat, he coughed again and said, “So sorry. Would you please excuse me? ”
    â€œBy all means.” She nodded. He retreated, and she was ready to step out of line, as well, when his place was suddenly filled by another man. She gazed forward. Her eyes rounded.
    â€œYou!” It was the Mohawk.
    â€œ Nyoh , yes, ’tis I. Forgive me,” he replied in his deeply baritone voice, “but I can hardly be expected to remain long as a spectator when the most beautiful creature in the hall has need of a partner. Would that I fill that role.”
    â€œSir!” She might have protested, but being swept up in the rhythm of the dance, whatever she might have said perished on her lips. Clasp hands, swing forward, step back, then advance, exchange places. She couldn’t fail to note that, though he were Mohawk, his knowledge of the dance was without fault.
    â€œOnce again,” she said as they promenaded, “you dazzle me with your knowledge of our English manners and culture. Pray, tell me, did you also learn dancing from the monks?”
    He smiled at her. “English traders,” he said simply. “And perhaps the influence of William Johnson who insisted that one day I would need the skill.”
    â€œYes, William Johnson,” she said. “I have heard of him. He has been quite influential amongst the Iroquois, I believe.”
    â€œHe has,” said the Mohawk.
    Though he was obviously dressed in his best, the Indian was an odd man out here in this hall, she noted, where the powdered wigs, the justaucorps and waistcoats of the Englishmen were the rule. By comparison, the Mohawk was wearing black from head to foot, though a streak of white appeared at his neck. His apparel seemed to consist of a tunic, belted at the waist, that looked to be a combination shirt and kilt. Skin-tight black leggings and high-topped moccasins completed the outfit.