Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Ana Belden

Waltz of the Red Silk Gown

Maggie was in the kitchen, lifting a loaf of bread from the oven when she heard the rustle of silk behind her. When she turned off the stove and greeted her employer her jaw dropped.

"Miz Serena! What on earth! You been up in that attic again?" Aghast, Maggie remembered her position and began once more. "Miz Roth, that's a right purty red dress. But how come you're wantin' to wear it now? You ain't goin' nowhere tonight, are you? There's a storm comin'."

Serena's face glowed with excitement. "I wore it the night I met him, Maggie. And on other occasions when it was just he and I, dancing alone in the ballroom. I thought he'd like to see me in it again." Serena held the voluminous yards of her dress out for inspection.

Maggie fought back despair and aggravation. It seemed the old lady slipped more each day. It was getting downright tiring to keep an eye on her. Then, looking closer, she realized there was a clear-headed energy in Serena she hadn't seen for a while, even though what she was saying was absurd. Knowing she shouldn't, she made her decision. If pretending to accept the woman's belief that the old Mister had returned from the beyond made Serena happy, tonight she would oblige.

"Well, turn around, missy. Let me do those buttons."

"He's been in the ballroom, Maggie, every night for a week now. At first I thought––" Serena's voiced faded. Maggie knew what she thought. On good days, Serena knew as well as anyone the cruelty age was imposing on her mind.

Maggie followed Serena to the ballroom. Although willing to indulge the fantasy, she would not leave her alone. "I'm chaperoning this dance, ma'am," she stated flatly when Serena gave her a questioning look.

In the great room, Serena swayed slightly, picked up her skirts, and moved eagerly to the center of the parquet floor. Lifting her hands as though offering them to another, she began a dance to unheard music. Her housekeeper sat on a brocaded bench and watched Serena's back arch slightly as though clasped by a partner. She could swear the years fell away as Serena moved to sounds Maggie could almost hear.

On and on, she watched Serena dance. Her skirts swirled to waltz time measured in moments from the past. Her silver hair took on a hue of gold in the glow of the half lit chandelier; the angular lines of her body shaded to youthful roundness and her laughter became a girlish sound reverberating to the corners of Maggie's mind. Spectral conversation began to resonate as her imagination began to eavesdrop.

"Just whom do I have the honor of dancing with this evening?" Maggie shivered as she actually heard a voice ask the words, echoing the same answer sought over 50 years before. The shadows' cast gathered an essence even a skeptic could not deny. The tall transparent figure of a man in uniform made Maggie blink and catch her breath.

"Miss Serena N O'Cent," Serena told him the name she had playfully taken when Cotton was King and antebellum etiquette was known as chivalry. In awe, Maggie remained silent as a story unfolded before her astonished eyes, the chill between her shoulder blades eased.

"Innocent of what, m'lady?" came the whisper. She smiled as Serena laughed and said nothing. Maggie knew well the story of how Serena and the Colonel had met. Refusing the fetters of polite society, and an actress for a while, Serena had been a daring young woman until the night she met Thomas Roth in New Orleans. Even in the café society of Vieux Carré, she shocked and raised eyebrows but she'd willingly left her restless days behind for Thomas.

Now the music was clearly heard, the gossamer presence of others long departed joined the scene. Transparent ladies hid behind decorative fans while dimly seen gentlemen in dashing waistcoats stood at their sides. No longer did Maggie feel a chill at what she did or did not see. Such loving memories are never a source of fear.

She sighed softly as Serena tilted her head to gaze into familiar eyes, felt the gentle grasp on Serena's silken waist and watched Colonel Roth lead his wife through one waltz after another. They were the center of attention for ghostly guests of yesterday. The housekeeper marveled as the line between this world and the next vanished in a moment of immortal
romance.

Despite having spent her life with both feet planted firmly in reality, Maggie swung a foot to the music and blissfully gave credence to the power of love. Tomorrow she would be logical and wise, but tonight belonged to these two and she was their fairy godmother. Removed from a life of plain and proper, she was a willing guest at a cotillion in the 1880's.

Outside, the air grew thicker, the night darker and from a distance, the sound of a storm gave warning. Maggie began to stir, her focus reluctantly drawn away from the moment. Time was beginning to spin again too quickly, and without pity. One by one, the phantom guests departed, and the music stilled. Finally, a crash of thunder and her illusions evaporated.

"Miz Roth? Ma'am? MIZ SERENA!

Serena flinched. Once again she stood alone, searching the ballroom. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment.

"M-Maggie?" Her voice was shaky.

"Miz Roth, the storm blowed the winders open. We need to get downstairs where it's safe." Maggie pleaded with her mistress, reality bringing a harsh return to her senses. Could she have dozed off while the missus was dancing? Surely so; what she'd seen could only be explained as a dream. She began to regret indulging the elderly woman her fantasies.

"No, Maggie, please. Thomas. Thomas will... Thomas is...

"Mister Thomas ain't here, Miz Roth," Maggie said dully, as she pulled the long windows shut. "Why don't you come on with me now and––" Maggie's heart broke at the expression on Serena's face. She continued, her eyes misting, her voice gentle. "And you and I will go on downstairs and wait for him there. He'd want that, now wouldn't he?"

"Do you think he'll return, Maggie?"

Maggie paused only a moment then brushed away all but the most honest of answers. "Why, Miz Serena, you know that man never would let nothin' stand between you and him."

Serena reached for Maggie's hand and gave it a squeeze as she walked through the ballroom door. To the eyes of the world, she was an elderly woman in a faded silk gown but to Maggie and the ghost of Thomas Roth, she was and always would be Serena N O'Cent, Belle of the Vieux Carré Ball.

© Copyright 2003 Ana Belden

About the Author:

Ana Belden lives in the bayou country of Louisiana. A Texas native by way of New Mexico, she's hoping her recent transplant to Cajun country will be a positive one. She is a second-year member of WVU and currently spends her time job hunting, writing, and prowling the halls of WVU.