Flying the Nest

Glynis counted the Swiss dots on the skirt of her new frock. Navy on lilac, she suspected she resembled less a young lady waiting to be asked to dance than a blue speckled egg left in the nest by a neglectful mother bird. Her own mother, having done her duty in outfitting Glynis for the party and seeing her hair properly dressed (“Where did you get these ebony curls, lassie? You look more the child of an Irishman than either mine or your da’s.), had taken herself off to the balcony “for a bit of air.” She didn’t mean to neglect Glynis, but there it was. She knew she would be remembered once they retrieved the car at the end of the evening.

Darling, where’s Glynis?

Oh, I thought she was with you.

No, I thought she was with you.

I’ll just go fetch her then.

Always an afterthought, Glynis, from her very conception after a couple glasses of port and one of her father’s contraband cigars. Not that thought had had much to do with that, she supposed, which made perfect sense when one considered she was the fourth child in a family where her three older brothers had all gone off to university or the service before she’d entered primary school.

“Hullo, Glynis.”

The unexpected sound of her own name startled her, and she jumped. Champagne sloshed over the rim of the narrow flute she held, dousing her wrist, corsage of delicate stephanotis, and broad navy silk sash. Mother would have something to say about that. Shaking her wrist, she glanced at the polished shoes in front of her but couldn’t discern their ownership and forced herself to travel the length of stockinged leg and kilted thigh until she came, at last, eye to eye with James Lindsay.

She bit her lip, cheeks flaming.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She shook her head to negate his apology but couldn’t find her voice. The copper taste of blood lit the tip of her tongue, and she grimaced, releasing her lip with a frown before realizing he might think it directed at himself. “’S all right,” she managed.

“Did you save me that dance then?”

Though his words teased, she thought him just the wee bit nervous. She noticed his hands toyed with the sporran at his waist, and he glanced away from her quickly after asking. Somehow, that gave her just enough courage to speak without stuttering. Gulping the remains of her champagne, she smiled directly at him.

“You’ve put the asking off rather late in the evening now, haven’t you, James?”

“Thought you might be keen to save the best for last.”

“Oh!” She felt a new flush starting and hid behind the flute for an instant.

“Or something like that.”

“You do set high expectations, James Lindsay.”

“I fear I must, else I’d find myself unworthy to share a dance, much less ask if I can call on you at home tomorrow.”

He bent and took the champagne flute from her. Handing it to a passing waiter, he offered her a hand. She placed her own inside of it, relishing the warmth and strength she felt as his fingers closed around hers. As she slipped into his arms on the ballroom floor, he leant close to her ear and whispered.

“I’ve not stopped thinking of you since McIllreavy’s store. Your face is the first thing I see in my mind when I wake in the morning and the last thing I see when I close my eyes at night.”

“James – “ Glynis bit the open sore on her lip and winced. “James, I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say you think of me, too. Even a bit from time to time.”

“I do,” she whispered, thinking she might never have to be an afterthought again.