I myself can say with some measure of pride that at age twenty, I have prospects. Or at least one prospect. And after all, a woman only needs but one if he be the right one. His name is Tom Lefroy. He is a charming Irishman, the nephew of a neighbour I saw at a ball last Christmas. His eyes are as blue as the Hampshire sky. ...

We danced every dance. When he took my hand to instigate a cross, rather than merely letting my hand sit gently upon his own, he squeezed it with subtle meaning. And when we slid by, one past the other, shoulder passing shoulder, we did not look straight ahead, as others with less intent would do, but turned our heads inwards, our chins glancing upon our shoulders as our eyes glanced upon each other. With but an instant for conversation, we resorted to single words, words full of teasing. And entreaty.

"Beautiful," he whispered as his shoulder skimmed mine.

"Rascal," was my reply next pass.

"Determined." He offered a wink.

"Ambitious."

The dance proceeded to other movements, silencing our verbal banter. Two dozen couples rose upon their toes, then lowered themselves to just height as they swept up and back, not one step missed, all ably immersed in the elegance of a common sway and parry.

To others it may have been a lark, an amusement on a cold December evening, but for Tom and me it was a sparring, a deliberate caracole, turning, ever turning towards each other and away, despairing of steps that forced time and space between us. I became heady with the sustained implication, as well as the anticipation of more.

But suddenly, as one dance ended and the musicians began the prelude for another, Tom took my hand and said, "Let us hide away."

He pulled me into the foyer, to a bench leaning back against the wall of the
mighty staircase but slightly hidden by a tall stand set with a porcelain urn.
We fell onto the seat, a jumble of conspiracy, motion, and laughter.

"There," he said, setting himself aright. "Now I have you where I want you."

Before I had time to respond, he leaned forward and kissed me. ...

Now ... I put my fingers to my lips, hoping their light pressure will help me
remember the one and only. ...

I do admit that Tom and I behaved in a most shocking manner, dancing with no thought or eyes to another, sitting down together, head to head, knee to knee, discussing Tom Jones, and laughing in a way that caused many a matronly stare. That we did not care was shameless. Yet I would not change one moment of our time—which was too fleeting.

Before the third ball, I visited the Lefroy home in Ashe on the auspices of visiting Tom's aunt Anne, a dear friend. Of course, I had hoped to see Tom ... just to see him would have fed and sustained me, like partaking in one meal, all the while knowing there will be another.

But Tom had fled the house—as if avoiding me? And though I enjoyed my visit with Anne, it did not hold the delicious delicacies I had expected. I now hold on to the hope that Tom was truly called away. Or did he flee because his family teased him about our attraction? Families can be relentless and cruel even as they try to be delightful.