— And I feel terrible about it, Jane says quickly, stepping forward. I promise I’ll have it repaired by the best tailor in Scotland. And if it can’t be fixed, I?—
She falters, searching for a way to make up for the irreparable.
My grandmother steps in, saving us with impeccable timing.
— Oh, come now, Isobel, she says lightly. I remember quite well the evening you spilled an entire tray of punch on Laird McDonald’s ceremonial robe. No one is perfect—especially not during their first Scottish dance.
A few quiet laughs ripple through the crowd. My mother actually blushes.
— That was different, Maggie protests.
— How? You were shaking with nerves—just like Jane today. And I don’t recall old McDonald humiliating you in front of an audience.
She turns to the musicians and claps her hands.
— Play, gentlemen! The ball has only just begun.
As if by magic, the music resumes—this time a waltz, simpler and more forgiving. Guests disperse, the tension dissolving.
My mother retreats, defeated but far from appeased, muttering something about changing her dress.
I turn to Jane, who still looks shaken.
— I’m so sorry, she whispers, staring at the floor. I didn’t mean to cause a diplomatic incident.
— Hey, I say gently, lifting her chin. You didn’t do anything wrong. These dances are difficult even for those of us who grew up with them.
— Your mother hates me now. Even more than before.
— She’ll recover. And if she doesn’t, we’ll send Hamish to chew through her favorite dresses.
A small smile finally appears.
— Come on.
I lead her out onto the terrace.
— You defended me, she says softly once we’re outside. In front of everyone. Against your mother.
— Of course I did. You’re my wife.
The words come out with a conviction that surprises even me. The contractual nature of our marriage suddenly feels very far away.
— Technically, I’m your wife because of the contract, she reminds me.
— Technically, maybe. But right now…
The words fail me.
— Right now? she prompts.
— Right now, I’d like to dance with my wife, I say finally, offering my hand. A simple dance this time. No aerial maneuvers. What do you say?
She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. I pull her close.
— I think I’ve exhausted my dance skills for the evening. I can’t guarantee your toes will survive.
— I’m willing to take that risk.
