The Dancers
It had been years since Ursula had had a meal anything like the feast at the burgermeister’s. Elisabeth pinched her pennies until they oinked, and Christmas at her house was all of a stewed hen and dumplings if she were in a good mood. Ursula’s father had loved good food, being a wine merchant, but his shifting fortunes meant the lavish holiday spreads were few and far between. At the burgermeister’s, the table they sat down to nearly bowed under the weight of hams, spit-roasted pheasants, sauerbraten and potato dumplings, platters of grilled winter trout, heaps of red cabbage stewed in honey, vinegar, and juniper berries, pillowy loaves of bread, bowls of roast turnips and carrots, wheels of cheese of all kinds, cakes of figs and raisins. And then there were the tortes, stollen, and sweetmeats…. Ursula couldn’t even look at these, she was so full by that point. Wine and beer flowed freely at the tables, but she kept to the fresh cider; everything about this event made her nervous, and she didn’t want to make any stupid mistakes.
Not that anyone would notice if she did. She was invisible to the gentry invited to this party, so far as she could tell. She was standing with Sidonie and a group of girls she used to know near the fireplace with its steaming kettle of mulled wine, but she might as well have been the train of Sidonie’s dress for as much mind as they paid her. Honestly, Ursula was fine with it; their conversation about lace cuffs and lapdogs and potential suitors wasn’t one she could add much to. Sadly, Mathilde had not come to dinner, so Ursula couldn’t use the matron as an escape hatch. So, she distracted herself by watching the dancers. Couples were stitching bright patterns across the great hall in their finery, stepping through the carole and the ballonchio to tunes laid down by a lively fife, lute, and drum.
A sudden lull in the chatter around her pulled her attention back from the floor, and she blinked up to find the graf towering over the little group by the fire. She dropped quite a late curtsey; the other girls snickered in their sleeves. Sidonie batted long, silky eyelashes up at Leopold. “My lord, I have learned a goodly number of carols on the lute; would you care to hear one.”
“Perhaps later,” Leopold said. “At the moment, I’m in the mood for a dance.” And then he turned and held out a hand to Ursula. “Would you do me the honor, Fraulein von Koppl?”
For once in that evening, Ursula had something in common with the other girls; they all just stared at the graf with their mouths open. Sidonie blurted, “You know the graf, Ursula? How is that possible….” But Leopold had already taken her hand and was leading her toward the floor.
“You looked bored enough to chew the tapestries,” Leopold said.
“The mantelpiece was looking more savory,” Ursula said coolly. “But I thank you nevertheless.”
“The gratitude is mutual. I don’t think I’ve ever been engaged in an affair that has tried harder to be enjoyable and yet fallen farther short.” Ursula disguised a snort as a cough in the lace cuff of her sleeve. The graf gave her a quick look up and down. “You clean up nicely, von Koppl.”
Ursula’s dress suddenly felt tight around her waist and hips. She touched one of her low buns, through which Sidonie had braided green velvet ribbons to match her dress. “Thanks. I’ll pass the compliment on to Sidonie, who worked quite hard on the whole thing. I think she likened it at one point to sheep-wrestling?” It was Leopold’s turn to chuckle.
“You do know how to dance…” he probed with a raised eyebrow as they approached to the chain of dancers circling the hall in a reigen.
“Of course, your Grace. I’m not actually a sheep….”
And then they were pulled into the whirl. The first minutes were a blur of concentration. In spite of her boasting, it had been a few years since Ursula had had any occasion to dance, and the steps took their time coming back to her. She was parted from the graf and reunited as the chain of dancers wove through itself. The third time they clasped hands, she felt a bit more confidence as they spun each other round and stepped back. He nodded to her with a grin. She began to feel the beat of the drums in her chest; it was the first time that night her heart had had any rhythm to it. She started to relax, to enjoy herself. She caught herself laughing aloud as she and another woman almost tripped over each other and righted themselves; the woman squeezed her arm and spun off again. Ursula thought, I remember this feeling….
She gasped and stumbled, bumping into the man next to her, who cursed. Ursula fumbled out of the dance into the shadows by the foyer and leaned against the wall, heaving and trying to catch her breath again against the snugged laces of her bodice. Leopold was nowhere to be seen. Keeping herself out of view, Ursula retraced her steps up to Sidonie’s room and changed out of the green velvet dress and back into her work dress. Wrapping herself up tightly in her cloak and pulling up the hood, she crept back downstairs, through the kitchens past the servants, who were bustling about with trays, and out the back door into the alley behind the burgermeister’s house.
It was late and quiet in the town. All the lights were out but those in a few houses, and the watchmen’s lanterns. She followed one up the road to the castle. The moon, half full, shone in her eyes, and she blew a cloud of breath at it. She was angry, but at whom? Sidonie was just trying to be nice in the ways she knew to be. So was Leopold. Really, she was angry at herself, for not trusting their kindness. And most of all, she was angry at her father for leaving her in this world without a shoulder to lean on, without anyone to tell her she was, no matter what anyone else said or thought, a good girl.
The fire in the great hearth was down to red coals when Ursula got back to the hospital, the patients were sleeping peacefully. Ursula turned to head up to her room when she saw Mathilde, sitting up still by the fire in her big wooden chair draped with soft sheepskins, doing a bit of mending. Ursula went over to her, bent, kissed the top of her head.
“How was the party?” Mathilde asked. “You looked beautiful, my dear.” She reached up and patted Ursula’s cheek with a smile. At her touch, the tears Ursula had been holding back spilled out of the corners of her eyes and onto the matron’s fingers. “What is it?” the woman’s brow folded into shadows in the rosy fireglow. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Ursula wiped her cheeks and sat down next to Mathilde on the floor. “Nothing bad.”
“Ah,” Mathilde said, and she went back to her mending, humming something that Ursula recognized after a few minutes as the carol “Stille Nacht.” It was warm and tranquil in the hall. Ursula leaned her head against the matron’s knee and watched the coals in the fire ripple gold, black, crimson. Her eyes slid shut. She smiled.
“Truth be told, Mathilde,” she murmured, “it was one of the best nights of my life.”
The Rookery 