First at Last (Updated Version)

Chapter Six

"Miss Lovet, you are to meet Lady Lovet andMonsieur Dupont in the ballroom," Agnes said from the doorway.

I glanced up at her, anticipation knotting my stomach. "Thank you, Agnes," I shut my book and put on my satin slippers before making my way down to the ballroom.

As I entered, I saw Mother and Monsieur Dupont talking in hushed voices, though both stopped when they saw me standing there.

"Bonjour, Demoiselle," Monsieur Dupont greeted, bowing with a flourish.

"Good morning, Monsieur," I said, curtsying to him.

Monsieur Dupont was a tall, rather thin man with a beaked nose and sharp eyes. He had black hair and light brown skin. He'd been my dance instructor as a child and I hadn't cared much for him back then. Perhaps things would be different now.

I distinctly remembered his words being as sharp as his eyes, used as weapons against me when I made mistakes.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Why are you standing so awkwardly? No one is going to want to dance with you when you look so unapproachable. You must take up space in the room, stand tall and regal, show that you belong there, that you deserve to be asked to dance," he said in his thick French accent, gesturing wildly with his hands as he spoke. "You should exude confidence, even if it is false. Thriving in society is all dependent on your ability to act. And stand up straight—no slouching. Unclasp your hands and look me in the eye when I am talking to you."

"Monsieur Dupont," my mother interjected. "I am paying you to teach her to dance, not to survive in polite society. We are well past that at this point."

My face heated and I looked down at my feet.

"Nonsense, Madame," Monsieur Dupont brushed off her comment with a wave of his hand. "All the pieces work together like a puzzle. If she is to be a confident, elegant dancer, than she must act the part. She could learn all the right steps, but if she does not make them with all the poise and confidence of a queen, then what is the point? So, I am teaching her to dance." The look he gave her held a challenge. "Is that not what you asked me to do?"

Mother pressed her lips together firmly, but she ceded the point with a quick nod of her head.

Monsieur Dupont turned back to me, his look assessing and critical. "And you, Demoiselle, it has been only a moment since I told you to stand up straight and you have already returned to your . . . hunched, apologetic position. You look like a wilting flower. Back straight, head high." He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.

I straighted my shoulders as much as I could and met his gaze, trying very hard to resist the urge to stare at my shoes.

He stared at me for a long moment before nodding his head. "Well, that is a start, isn't it?" He said, his voice a little gentler than before. He held out his hand to me. "Now, then, let us begin."

#

Monsieur Dupont was merciless. He pointed out every flaw, every mistake—and there were so many of them. He criticized everything I did, even the things that I thought I did relatively well. If I stepped on his foot or stumbled, or even was a little slow to match his footing, he would begin speaking angrily in French, which was almost more intimidating than his constant criticisms.

By the time our lesson was over, I was tired, sweating, trying very hard not to cry, and completely prepared to swear off dancing forever. I wanted to disappear into the floor and hide for the rest of my life. The worst part was how long it lasted. Hours. It lasted hours. Despite how angry he had gotten with me during the lesson, how impatient, how critical, by the end, it was as though the last several hours had never happened.